Dark Matter
by junejuly15
Summary: Sherlock has returned to John, but he is profoundly changed and everything that once was between them is gone. John finds himself thinking the unthinkable: He wishes Sherlock had never returned -Post-Reichenbach/Reunion Fic/Johnlock - UPDATE: Two new chapters - Two alternative endings (Epilogue One/ Epilogue Two) - Now complete
1. Dark Matter

**(Sorry about the multiple mails those of you received who follow me, but this site is rather misbehaving and gave me hell publishing this story ...)**

**Sherlock has returned to John, but he is changed and everything that once was between them is gone. John finds himself thinking the unthinkable: He wishes Sherlock had never returned.**

_**Dark Matter**_** is a post-Reichenbach reunion fic which is going to be a bit darker and very likely a bit more graphic than what I usually write. Johnlock obviously…**

**Here comes the first chapter. Enjoy reading!**

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**Dark Matter**

'Don't be an idiot, John! Did you not listen to me? I will not repeat myself, so do keep up for God's sakes!' Sherlock snapped. 'Or are you as imbecilic as the rest of them? Why on earth do I have to put up with you lot?'

John's head shot up and he fixed his dark eyes on Sherlock who was crouching next to the corpse, opposite John. He was busy examining the victim's hand, squinting intently at a defense wound at the right ring finger through his pocket magnifying glass. Looking at him, absorbed as he was, in mute concentration, one could be tricked into believing that he had not spoken at all. But his words were still ringing in John's ear, his low, sibilant and angry voice still echoing in his heart.

John sat back on his heels and gulped down the uneasy feeling that was rising like bile in his mouth. Embarrassed, he let his eyes dart around the room to check if anybody had overheard. His gaze met Lestrade's who stood maybe two yards away, arms crossed in front of his chest and one eyebrow raised questioningly. So he had heard.

John dipped his chin and lightly shook his head. No, he would not explain. Would not explain why Sherlock had fairly spat out his insults. Could not explain why steel, venom even, had been underlying those words and that they had been laced with contempt.

'John!' Sherlock demanded now, still not looking up, but stretching out his hand and wiggling his fingers impatiently. John knew what was wanted and grudgingly handed him his torchlight. But he immediately got up as he felt the urge to put a distance between himself and Sherlock's demeanour. Without thinking he positioned himself at the farthest end of the wall, away from Lestrade and Sherlock, crossing his arms defensively in front of his chest, effectively cutting himself off from the situation. Lestrade, sensing that something was wrong, turned his attention to him. 'John, what can you tell me so far?'

'I – um,' John uncrossed his arms and stretched his chest, allowing himself to grow again. He glanced at Sherlock who was still busy examining the victim, ostensibly paying them no heed. 'Multiple stab wounds to the lower abdomen and to the heart, one or two of them fairly deep from what I could see. I'd say the multitude of the stabs was lethal. The perpetrator used a thin, serrated knife judging from the edge of the wounds. Strangulation marks on the neck, not recent though, but a few days old …'

'And as always missing out on all the vital clues.' Sherlock rudely interrupted and turned around to them with a flourish, making his coat billow out behind him dramatically, offering everyone a glimpse of the old Sherlock. 'She was obviously only dumped here, and murdered somewhere else. I'd say a wine cellar or a largish humid basement room more likely, going by the damp spots and the marks on her back and the distinct mouldy smell clinging to her clothes.'

Brusque, but professional again, he had taken on his perfected, impassive detective persona, making his outburst from just a moment ago almost unbelievable. Nonetheless he sounded bored, none of the usual fascinating sparkle around him. Confused John focused on Sherlock and tried to read him while he was rattling off his deductions in an efficient, but detached way. He could not as he was unable to see behind the façade of Sherlock's face which was impenetrable, cold and distant.

'Right,' Lestrade finally said, pensively scratching his three-day-stubble. 'Well, I can promise we'll try to get this wrapped up as soon as possible. But we might need you again. Could you both come to the Yard, let's say … tomorrow morning for the paperwork?'

'Certainly. Though I don't see what you would need John for,' Sherlock coldly said and strutted out of the room.

oOo

Sherlock left it to John to pay the cabbie. When John turned around Sherlock had already unlocked the door to 221B and had vanished inside, not waiting for him. Uneasiness crept into his soul, fear filled his heart, and anger made him clench his fists. Straightening his back he adopted his military stance, seeking assurance in the posture that was part of his personality, part of his strength.

Four weeks had passed since Sherlock had become a part of his life again. Four weeks had passed since John had learnt that Sherlock was indeed not dead, was not buried and had been mourned in vain – In short, four weeks had passed since John had learned that Sherlock had been mocking them all.

And for John Watson four weeks were not enough time by far to adapt to the fact that Sherlock Holmes was back and alive and breathing and frankly driving him mad.

Four _bloody_ weeks!

If anything they had reached an impasse in their anger so far, John being unable to forgive and Sherlock being completely changed, a shadow of his former self. They barely spoke, they merely co-existed, and today had marked a new low in their relationship when Sherlock had chosen to publicly humiliate him in front of Lestrade and his men.

John angrily pushed open the door that had not closed completely and slipped into the hall. With an air of finality he shut the heavy entrance door behind him and ascended the stairs to their flat. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but his coat was carefully slung over the hook at the back of the living room door, his scarf draped on top of the coat. At least _some things_ never change, John thought and with a defeated sigh he slipped out of his black jacket. His feet took him into the kitchen on their own volition and he gladly embraced the idea of brewing a cuppa, as much as to busy himself as to think and calm down _– _

_I will be damned if I go after him - no way – this is going too far – this is bloody insufferable_ –

Those past four weeks Sherlock had been at his worst, cold, harsh, snarky and taking impatience to a new level, even for his standards. Where there had been a silent understanding between them before, there was an abyss filled with nothingness now. Suppressed anger, ill-tempered retorts, curses hissed under their breath and silly misunderstandings marked their every interaction. And where they had been on the brink of taking the leap and becoming more than friends, there was only coldness and a rift between them seemingly too wide to bridge.

John leaned against the sink and looked out of the window. His glance flickered to the left where he could see Sherlock's bedroom window. The room was dark, but he thought he made out a shadow moving away as if he had been standing at the window and had felt watched and bothered once John had looked in his direction. John scoffed and turned around, facing the cluttered kitchen. With a shrill whistling the kettle indicated that the water was boiling and John tore his thoughts away from this infuriating madman to busy himself with the well-practised and calming motions of preparing a cup of tea.

O

Sherlock did never leave his room that evening and John spent the remaining hours of the day in his usual chair catching up on a novel he had wanted to read ages ago. At half eleven when concentration had failed him for the umpteenth time he gave up and called it a day.

A splitting headache had formed behind his temples and his whole body was tingling with unresolved tension. It was weighing him down, the way they dealt with each other, every hurled word, every hissed answer making it more than evident that they had lost their ease, the intimacy they had established while living together, their closeness. _Everything_ was gone!

And there were times John when found himself staring at this sad image of Sherlock, at this imposter, marvelling at this ridiculous version of his former life that fate had chosen to throw at him – sniggering and giggling somewhere in the background, no doubt.

John put down the book on the coffee table with a thud and left the living room. The absolute silence permeating the whole flat reminded him once again of the time before Sherlock had returned. He hesitated in the hallway for a moment, listening for any sign of life, but when no sound indicated that Sherlock was still awake, he continued his way upstairs.

Slowly and deliberately John put his feet onto the first, then the second and third step, walking up the wooden stairs to his room, but with every step an unspeakable thought started to materialise inside his head, a thought that frightened him, and one that he did not want to pursue –

_I almost wish Sherlock had not come back. I wish he'd left me bloody well alone_ –

John swallowed thickly and stopped in his tracks for a moment, forcing this thought to become less insistent and to finally leave him. Tiredly he dragged his feet up the last remaining steps to his room and once inside he firmly closed the door on this bloody day.

oOo

Sherlock sat on the floor in the corner of his room, in complete darkness, his legs drawn up and hugging his knees to his chest. The walls hemming him gave him security and a sense of safety. He was slightly rocking back and forth in a never-ending, dulling, numbing motion. Closed eyes and twitching lips indicated that he was busy filing away bits and pieces in his mind palace. He was up to the last few months of his odyssey, defragmenting, compartmentalising, dehumanising everything that had happened to him, and everything he had been forced to do to others.

Images of knives, of blood rushed past him, the scent of betrayal and bribery tickled his nose and made him retch and the smell of sex and death assaulted him so that he had to avert his head in a desperate attempt to avoid it.

It took him one, two, three hours and when he finally stopped rocking, slowly calming down, it was as if he came to, awaking as from a trance. Letting his legs slip to the floor he hung his head. Beads of moisture trickled down his neck and back as he was drenched in sweat and his dark curls were plastered to his skull. He opened his eyes and gingerly got up, wincing when the blood started pulsing through his limbs again, making him aware of his life –

_His life?_

A mere existence more likely, an _existence_ he had already come to despise, along with everything that had once made him whole. What had happened in the last three years had been done with the sole purpose of destroying Moriarty's web. The only target, pushing him forward, driving him on, had been the restoration of his own reputation, thus enabling him to return to his old life.

And now that he was back - How did it feel to have everything he had so desperately fought for?

His work, once the motivator of his entire being, was no longer enough to fulfill him, allowing boredom and restlessness to race through his mind and soul almost constantly. His heart was dulled towards his friends and family: Lestrade was plain and boring, Mycroft still insufferable - at least that had not changed.

And what about John? Life at 221B was alien to him, John strangely irritating, and yet, _and yet_ - his presence had so far proved the only thing that had had the power to dampen the chaos in his mind, if only temporarily. But he could not interact with him anymore, there was something hanging between them, something that made him shy away.

And today he had lost it, had snapped at him, had let his irritation erupt unguarded. When Sherlock became aware of the paradox his mind had just created, his lips curled into something resembling a smile. He almost winced with the motion as he was so unused to it that it hurt like a phantom pain.

He ran cold fingers through his hair and over his face, trying to coerce some life back into his dead body. A glance at his watch told him that it was half past two. Sherlock knew that John had gone to bed hours ago and so he grabbed fresh clothes and went to take a shower. He could not deny a resistance he had to overcome, a kind of disgust even, every time he undressed and had to face what had become of him. His body had never held any fascination or mysteries for him, but the last three years had taught him to despise himself.

When Sherlock entered the bathroom he shied away from the glaring light and decided to leave the door open to let the dim light filter in from the hallway. He quickly undressed and stepped into the shower, all the while avoiding his reflection in the mirror, thankful for the steam that soon filled the bathroom and clouded up the glaring glass. When he washed his hair, his fingers brushed over one of the healed wounds on his scalp and he flinched, the memory still fresh, not yet covered with a scab.

Not a scar yet.

O

Refreshed, Sherlock slinked into the dark living room in his catlike gait, still not bothering to turn on any lights. His night vision was excellent and his senses pleasantly heightened in the almost full darkness. Well, as full as darkness could be in a city as polluted by light as London - very unlike some other places his chase had taken him.

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks when the memories triggered by this thought washed over him as sharp as shards of broken glass. Standing in the middle of the room, he was slightly swaying as if dodging particularly unpleasant ones. In a moment of slight inattentiveness a wave of utter loneliness hit him, took hold of him, and would not budge no matter what dance his brain performed, what manoeuvres his intellect proposed and it assaulted him, fulfilled him and consumed him.

Sherlock sank down to his knees to wait out the weakness, but it would not let go, making his breathing go ragged and white stars dance in front of his eyes. Involuntarily he snarled, trying to frighten it away, but no …

On impulse he got up and fairly bounded up the stairs to the second floor, taking two steps at a time with his naked feet. His consciousness only kicked into gear and made him realise what he was doing once he had opened the door and found himself standing in the middle of John's bedroom listening to the calming steady breathing of his sleeping flatmate.

Surprised he blinked and recoiled slightly, but he did not retreat. Instead he shakily exhaled, breathing through the abating panic, and turned to close the door firmly behind him.

In the dim light of the street lights falling through the window he could make out the bed and walked over to him. He stood still for a moment, undecided, listening to the deep breathing indicating sound and safe sleep. Tentatively he reached out into the darkness, but snatched back his hand almost immediately. He knew that he would neither disturb nor touch him.

Quietly Sherlock lowered himself onto the carpeted floor next to John's bed. Leaning his back against the wooden and sturdy bed frame he finally felt the chaos in his mind become less persistent. He consciously breathed in and out a few times and a certain pleasant numbness settled over him like a fine mist. It was not enough, though, and he tried to make out John's breathing in the dark room, willing to synchronize it with his own.

And listening to their synchronized breathing he managed to calm down and to marginally relax for the first time in ages.

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**A/N**

Thank you for reading. As always, your feedback is very much loved and appreciated ;-D JJ


	2. Eclipse

**Welcome to all of you who are new to this story … well, I have to say that because this site was rather misbehaving when I posted the first chapter and it NEVER showed on the 'New Story'-page. **

**Anyway … Here comes the second chapter, enjoy reading!**

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**Eclipse**

Sherlock would always be very careful not to miss the last possible moment to leave John's bedroom unnoticed. An easy feat as he never actually slept, but only enjoyed the calmness and peace that he was unable to find during the long days.

After leaving John's room Sherlock would invariably sneak down the stairs quietly and take residence in his old leather chair, facing the stairway, willing to while away the rest of the early morning. Shivering in their cold living room, the fire long dead and the heating turned too low to make a significant dent in the insistent cold clinging to the walls and furniture. He would not mind, but welcome the physical discomfort as a worthy counterbalance to the turmoil in his mind.

Without fail John would find him there in the morning when he came down to take a shower and have breakfast. Always in the same position, his feet propped up on the seat of the chair and his long arms hugging his knees to his chest. He looked rather young and helpless the way he was curling into himself, obviously not wanting to lay himself unnecessarily open for attack for whatever was lurking in the dark. John would bid him good morning, let his gaze unobtrusively travel over him, and, invariably, this little gesture would mark the start to their days.

Days characterised by their strangely dulled relationship and meaningless conversations and the tiptoeing around each other trying to avoid yet another row.

But one of those nights Sherlock wasn't careful enough and everything changed. After a particular strenuous day and hours of restless pacing of the living room after John had gone to bed, he had finally given up and sneaked into his room. Listening to John's steady breathing had been like a desperately needed soporific and he had fallen asleep easily and almost instantly, leaning his exhausted body against the bed frame, curled into a ball, his head on the mattress of John's bed.

John had awoken because a noise somewhere in the old house had startled him, and his senses immediately alerted him to the fact that he was not alone. He sat bolt upright in his bed, fists raised and heart pounding wildly in his chest. His eyes quickly scanned the room and came to rest on the dark form crouching next to his bed. In the greyish light of dawn he could make out Sherlock, in t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, his arms protectively wrapped around himself and his head on John's mattress. John sharply drew in a breath when he realised how very close he was, as close as they had never been since his return.

Sherlock was sleeping, his face serene and peaceful. A boyish and innocent air surrounded him and without thinking John reached out and weaved his fingers through Sherlock's curls. Letting the silky strands glide through his fingers a soft moan escaped John's mouth. Memories of past intimacies and promises, adventures and closeness raced through his brain and lost in those soothing memories he let his hand travel further, over the soft hair and down to the slender neck, lingering where curls met tender skin.

All of a sudden Sherlock opened his eyes and it was as if the air shifted in the room. Instinctively he batted John's hand away and when their eyes met for a split-second John gasped when he saw the naked panic in those pale blue eyes. Instinct kicked in yet again and Sherlock immediately scrambled backwards and away from him like a frightened animal. Wild, with wide open eyes, he sat frozen like a rabbit caught in the headlights for a short moment and then he started panting as unspeakable fear took complete hold of him. His eyes darted from John to the door, weighing the chances of his escape and back to John, from floor to ceiling, from one end of the room to the other.

'Sherlock,' John said, peeling back the duvet to get up, to soothe, to offer comfort, but Sherlock scrambled to his feet and bolted out of the room without leaving John any chance to reach out to him.

oOo

'What happened to you, Sherlock?'

'As it is so often the case, I don't know what you are talking about.'

'I think you bloody well do.'

'Enlighten me.'

'You reacted as if you were afraid of me, as if you feared I was going to harm you.'

'Hmm?'

'An hour ago, Sherlock! - In _my_ room. I don't even know what you were doing there. But when you woke you panicked …'

'A perfectly normal reaction.'

'Perfectly _normal_? Who are you trying to fool here, Sherlock?' John scoffed and turned away only to spin around and point an accusing finger at him. '_You _were trembling like an animal that is going to be taken to the slaughterhouse, you were acting on instinct, your whole body on red alert, panicking.'

Sherlock looked up at him then and stopped plucking the strings of his violin. He placed a hand over the strings to still them and bit his lip. Offering only gestures, but no words, forcing John to continue. John tilted his head to the side, studying him. When he spoke again he was making a deliberate effort to sound much calmer than he felt. It was no use being over-excited, it would get him nowhere with Sherlock in that state.

'Listen, Sherlock. I have only seen you like that once before – at Baskerville. And then you were frightened to the bone by a monstrous hound. Fortunately it turned out that it only existed in your head and only because you had been drugged.' John straightened his back. 'But this…' he pointed at the stairs indicating the incident in his bedroom. 'This was _real_. I touched you and you panicked.'

'So far so obvious.' Sherlock coldly acknowledged, but he would not elaborate, he would not explain.

'Right – ' John crossed his arms in front of his chest. 'The question is _why_ would you panic when I touch you?'

'You're finally asking the right questions, John. Bravo! Why indeed?'

Sherlock slowly and meticulously packed away the violin in its case. Reverently he placed a velvet cloth over its gleaming wooden body to protect it from scratching. John watched him doing it and recognised the elaborate and deliberate gesture for what it was: A desperate attempt to buy some time.

Instinctively John moved towards him and kneeled down next to his chair. Sherlock did not react, but John could feel this peculiar tensing of the air again, a distinct shift towards the cold. Nevertheless he placed a hand on Sherlock's arm, soothingly, innocently. Sherlock's body stiffened and he fixed his eyes on John's hand _clamped_ around his upper arm, felt the unbearable warmth of his fingers seeping through the fabric of his suit and into his bones, burning into the marrow. It took all the self-control he could muster not to bolt from the chair and just run, _run_. Instead he lifted his eyes until they met John's and said in a preternatural quiet voice.

'Let go of me, John.'

John held Sherlock's gaze for a moment, trying to understand, but then he nodded and let his hand fall onto the arm of the leather chair. He dipped his chin and exhaled noisily to get rid of some of the tension.

'This won't do …' He eventually said, very quietly. 'You need to get help, Sherlock. I recognise PTSD when I see it and in the time you've been … away … something must have happened to you, something that traumatised – '

'There's nothing wrong with me …' Sherlock immediately snapped as if on cue, but it sounded like a reflex, overused, false and weak. His gaze quickly flickered sideways, over John's reassuring and steady form. Steepling his hands beneath his chin, he exhaled and tried to find the required words.

'You know nothing, John. Nothing at all. You think you can diagnose me from one incident, you think you can judge me from what happened sixty minutes ago. Well, let me assure you, you cannot. It was a perfectly normal reaction to a fright you'd given me. I was just startled, nothing more and nothing less.' Sherlock let his hands sink onto the armrest to indicate that this matter was settled.

'Fine,' John said and got up, slightly wincing when his joints cracked. 'Fine, Sherlock. Why would you listen to me, I'm just a doctor who happens to have some first-hand experience with PTSD, but quite obviously I underestimated your ability of self-diagnosis and repression. If you need me, I'll be upstairs.' Without glancing back at Sherlock John quickly walked out of the room, away from him.

'Why would I need you?'

'No reason, no reason at all.'

Sherlock stared at the retreating form of John, his slumped shoulders indicating tiredness and exasperation. He sat forward in his chair, alert and ready to get up, to go after him. When John set his foot on the first step, Sherlock flinched almost imperceptibly, it was obvious that he would be true to his word, climb up to his room and leave him here.

'You think I'm repressing?' Sherlock called after him, getting up from his chair. He straightened his jacket and slowly walked towards John. 'You think I am pretending in order to hide the fact that I am disturbed, unhinged, a _loony_, don't you? You think I cannot stand your touch because something must have happened to me. What do you think it was, John?'

With every word Sherlock had closed the gap between them and now he was standing right behind him. The stairs were levelling their height difference bringing his lips close to John's face. 'Was it abduction? Torture? Brainwashing?' He let his eyes roam over John's back, admiring the tension that had taken hold of him with every spat out word. He leaned even closer and hissed the last one into his ear. 'Rape?'

John flinched when the dreaded word hit him and shook his head. He knew that _something_ must have happened to Sherlock, he showed textbook behaviour after all, but his heart still wanted to believe that he was fine, just a rather exaggerated version of his former self, trying to settle back into his old life, however heavy the evidence might weigh against this assumption. He didn't answer, so Sherlock continued in his dangerously low and velvety baritone, evoking past intimacies, making the bleak present grow brittle and fade away momentarily.

'Let me assure you, it was nothing of this kind. I am perfectly fine.' Taking yet another step closer to John he whispered, 'Do you want me to prove it?'

Without waiting for a response he pressed his body against John's back, slipping his arms around his waist. John felt the shape of his lean body, his arms holding him tight and Sherlock's lips brushing over his nape, causing the fine hairs stand on end - and he did not know what to make of it. He only knew that he did not enjoy this intimate touch, not here, not now. Without speaking a word he firmly peeled Sherlock's hands away from his waist and took two steps up the stairs to put some distance between them before he turned and faced him.

'What on earth are you doing, Sherlock? Trying to prove that you are perfectly fine by doing what quite obviously frightens you to death? I don't want your touch if it so obviously repels and panics you …' He hesitated, and when he continued the tone of his voice fought a losing battle between amazement and anger. 'You touched me … like _that_ just to prove me wrong and to rub it in my face that I am the idiot here! Seriously! … _Seriously_, Sherlock? As long as you don't see what's going on here, I can't help you. _Jesus_ - if you want me to get off your back, just tell me.'

Sherlock gulped, he looked miserable and lost like a small boy for a moment, but in the blink of an eye the cold mask had slipped back into place. He straightened his jacket, brushing off an inexistent fleck of dust from his cuffs and focused on John.

'Fine, John. I indeed want you to leave me alone and I neither need your diagnoses nor your advice.'

Although the rational part of John's mind had expected a retort along those lines, it was like a slap across his face when it came and he fought hard to bite back the hurt and anger that raced through him.

'Right – Okay.' John cleared his throat, trying to convey calmness that he did not feel. 'I agree with you on one point, Sherlock. It would certainly be better for both of us if we put a bit of distance between us. I mean – you coming back to my life like that …' he let the sentence hang unfinished in the air. Suddenly John's face clouded over, and he looked tired and beaten. 'You made it more than clear that you don't want me to help. To be honest it seems as if you don't want me around at all. Maybe it would be better if I moved out for a while …' his voice broke then and his gaze, despite what had just happened full of hope, flickered to Sherlock's face which was still impassive, no emotion visible. 'But only if you really don't need me?' Sherlock did not utter a word, but merely stared at him. The air slowly grew cold between them and it was John who eventually broke the silence when he could not endure it any longer. 'Fine – Don't bother. I'll try to be gone as soon as possible.'

And with that John turned on his heels and stormed up to his room. Sherlock stayed behind fighting the urge to run after John and hold him back. Why he so desperately fought this urge, he could not have said. Undecided he glanced up the stairs, the walls, waiting for something, anything. But John did not return, did not do him the favour to decide for him.

Sherlock touched the wooden banister, his fingers drumming an angry tattoo against the wood. Another minute or so passed before he dropped his gaze and turned to walk back into the living room. With a sigh he sat down in his chair, staring into the emptiness of the flat which suddenly seemed to have grown icy, older and greyer, the colours faded and washed out -

_A trick – it's just a trick of the mind _–

But it was as if the rooms had teamed up to mock him by giving him a sad preview of a life without John. Sherlock pressed his hands against his temples and closed his eyes on this bleak prospect.

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**A/N** Thank you all so much who have reviewed, alerted and favourited!

I hope you like the second chapter … and as always your feedback is very, very much appreciated ;-D JJ


	3. Dusk

**A bit of a much-needed respite for the boys …**

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**Dusk**

'He's changed, isn't he?' Greg Lestrade stated. He leaned forward, taking a sip of the lukewarm lager he had been nursing for the last half hour.

John snorted, 'You can say that again. He is insufferable …'

'Nothing new then.'

'Yeah, right. Nothing new, but when he was rude in the past it was because he didn't know better, not because he wanted to hurt.'

'And now he does?' Greg's forehead creased into a frown when he remembered something. 'Like the time when he lashed out at you the crime scene … when was it? Last week?'

'Yes.' John nodded, 'Exactly like that. There's no filter, no pretense, no modesty, no decency. He just lashes out and … spits on everything that we used to have.'

Greg winced sympathetically, 'That must be uncomfortable.'

John did not comment - _what was there to say really?_ - There was a lull in the conversation when both of them pursued their own train of thought.

After a few moments of silence among all the chatter in the pub, Greg shifted on the hard wooden chair and glanced at John and back to his beer, scrutinizing it as if the answer to the question he really wanted to ask could be found at the bottom of his glass. He cleared his throat and eventually took heart. 'John, I know it's really none of my business, you never clarified and you don't have to tell me now if it makes you uncomfortable. But you know, I always wondered if you and Sherlock were …'

'No,' John interrupted. 'We were not.'

'Right.' Greg nodded with the determination of a man who had received the answer he had secretly expected, but John was not finished yet. 'We could have been, though. We were very, very close.'

Greg nodded again - Yes, they could have been - Everybody who had seen them together before the _fall_ had immediately recognised that Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock were inseparable – a unit. What they had never been able to fathom, though, had been how strong this bond had been and if it had meant being more than friends _They could have been_, John had said, and it had sounded very sad.

Greg cleared his throat again, chasing the persistent tightness away. 'Three years!' He exclaimed, just that tiny bit too loud, and shook his head in amazement, trying to move away from this delicate topic. 'Three bloody years. Makes you wonder, doesn't it?' Pensively he took another sip and winced when the stale beer hit his taste buds. Accusingly he looked at the glass in his hand and then up to John. 'Has he told you anything? Where he was or what he went through?'

'No – nothing so far.' John placed his half-drunk pint on the wooden table, trying to avoid the sticky patches left by sickly sweet drinks someone had carelessly spilt. 'He clammed up, keeps everything in. Quite an achievement for a compulsive talker like Sherlock.'

Lestrade grunted his assent, 'Yeah, sure –' He squinted at John, he could not rid himself of the feeling that John was stalling, avoiding. 'Nothing else then? Any significant changes?'

'You mean apart from him being obnoxious, snarky, impatient? Well, he was all that before, but even for his standards the last weeks were way over the top.'

'That's not what I meant, John.'

John smiled at Greg, his friend, an insecure little smile. 'I know. That's not what you meant. Has he changed? Well…' John moved the glass on the table leaving wet circles on the surface. 'When he is quiet he is very, very quiet, I mean he's sort of _not there_, drawn into himself, absolutely unreachable. He used to go through such phases of withdrawal before, but there always was an electrifying amount of energy surrounding him. He was still _there_, and his personality bubbling underneath this still surface.' John nodded, 'Yes, that's probably the biggest change … oh, and he shies away from touch. No, that's not correct.' John put the glass down firmly and faced Lestrade. 'He downright panics when I touch him.'

'Oh,' Greg simply said. They both knew that Sherlock had never been what people would call an overly emotional and touchy-feely person, but he had never been anything less than over-confident and most of all the king of ruthlessly invading another person's personal space. Musing, they both sat back on their chairs, unconsciously mimicking the other man's posture.

Five months into Sherlock's death they had started meeting up for drinks and talks, thus making Greg probably the only person, apart from John's twin sister Harry, who roughly knew what John had gone through the past three years. He had helped him through the grief and the horror and the anger as a good friend should. But John had never ventured into the lion's den of his feelings for Sherlock. Despite all their friendship might mean to John, he had not been able to share those emotions with Greg. Admitting that they could have been a couple was the most intimate information he had ever offered him. Greg twirled the glass between his hands and glanced at John.

'Did he offer any explanation at all why he disappeared like that?'

'No, Greg. He does not talk to me about that time –' He paused, weighing his words. 'I was overjoyed when he came back, and I assumed it was exactly the same for him. But time sort of went by and we never came round to sit down and talk properly. If anything we moved away from each other with every row and every misunderstanding.' John's expression darkened, 'Now that you ask … Sherlock has indeed been careful to avoid any opportunity to talk, in fact he has been building this barrier between us from the very first moment. How fitting, really … he cannot talk to me … and to be honest I cannot talk to him.'

'You mean, he doesn't know what you went through either?' John shook his head. '_Jesus_ – ' Greg snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. That's men for you, he thought. Never talk, always brooding, always biting back, swallowing everything until it's too late, until the anger, the repressed hurt fills every available crevice in your heart, leaving you seething and with no way out of the mess. He was well aware that he was one of _those_ _men_ all right, and he flinched when his thoughts travelled back to the endless rows with his ex-wife.

But John and Sherlock should know better, should avoid making the same bloody mistake. With a heartfelt sigh he said. 'Well, one of you has to make the first move, John. You two have to talk eventually. I don't know if he even has an inkling of what you went through.' John scoffed and Greg glanced at his friend's face. 'I don't know, but judging from what I saw of him I'm sure he had to live through horrendous stuff as well. I mean just look at him, he's a shadow of his former self.'

They were silent for a while, thinking, reliving the last encounters with Sherlock, and simply letting the insistent and happy buzz of the pub wash over them. Then Greg took the last sip of his beer and lifted his empty glass. 'Another?'

'Cheers, mate. I'll have a pint of bitter.'

John watched Greg weave his way through the throng of punters, saw him order and joke with the cute blond barmaid, all flashing teeth and silver fox charm. He knew that Greg was rather lonely now that he and the wife had finally ended their ill-fated marriage. The barmaid responded eagerly and fixated her attention on him a bit too long to be considered disinterested by anyone who cared to look. John grinned, he was a bloody charmer, was Greg.

John deemed it safe to make a quick detour to the loo, and when he came back Greg had just returned to their table with their drinks and greeted him with a smug smile. 'Any luck?' John asked and Greg's smile deepened. John slapped him on the shoulder and sat down next to him. He couldn't deny a pang of jealousy. Not because of the barmaid, but because of the fact that a bit of light-hearted banter and fun was so easy to be had. Looking at his own life he doubted that ease and fun and laughter would be returning any time soon. John's expression darkened when his thoughts inevitably returned to Sherlock and Greg squeezed his shoulder encouragingly.

'John, I told you, you have to talk, sort it out. You're a doctor, I'm sure you know what there is to do, where you can get help. I can recognise trauma when I see it and so can you and I'm one hundred percent sure, so can genius Sherlock.'

'True,' John assented with a tiny smile, tinged with sadness. 'But maybe it won't be so easy, eh? We had a terrible row yesterday and without thinking of the consequences I told him I'd move out, at least for a while.'

'Well,' Greg bit his lip, 'I don't know what happened between the two of you and you know that my door is always open and the lilo eagerly waiting for you and your manly body, but I really think you should not leave him.' He winked at him, 'Come to think of it, _he's_ the one who came back out of the blue. So, if anyone should be moving out it should be Sherlock.'

John smiled weakly, but then his face grew serious again. 'I guess I could not send him away, Greg. Not after all that happened.'

'Right –' Greg took a hearty sip of the last lager of this night. 'The offer stands, though. If you ever need a bit of distance, just come over.'

oOo

A few days had passed since their row, and it was as if the looming shadow of another separation had called a kind of truce between them. Sherlock of course was not aware of John's conversation with Lestrade, could not know that John was willing to give him yet another chance.

He was more subdued these days, his anger and repulsion no longer simmering directly underneath his skin. The bleak prospect of being alone and of losing John yet again - if only temporarily - was filling him with dread, no with white-faced, ugly panic and allowed him to reign in all his ill temper. Unexpectedly it had brought something else entirely to the fore: He proved to be physically unable to let John out of his sight, he always had to know where he was and what he was up to.

So Sherlock had turned into John's shadow, following him around the flat - A silent, unobtrusive, but very persistent shadow.

When John took his shower, he would lurk in the kitchen, listening to the dripping water, tensing when there was no sound, and relaxing when he heard him moving about again. He always made sure to look inconspicuous, pretending to be busy with the microscope. Thank God their flat was not overly spacious and he could easily keep track of him, always be in his vicinity.

This morning it was ever so easy to be near as John had started clearing up their living room, making it child's play for Sherlock to monitor him. His eyes followed John's rather small hand grabbing some old and dusty paperbacks from the shelf next to the fireplace. Apparently he wanted to start here, going through their vast amount of books, bringing some order to their life. He was so predictable, was John, Sherlock thought and his lips curled into a tiny mocking smile: Outward order facilitating the order of the mind. He did not mind, no, not at all. He was content to watch him, content to feel something akin to peace being around him.

O

John gently placed the books he had chosen in the one wooden crate he planned on filling with some of their belongings, to be stored in the basement until further notice - And Sherlock was there, next to him, of course he was. John was very aware of Sherlock stalking him, and he vastly preferred it to the sulky, iniquitous ill temper that had dominated the past weeks. They were far from a solution, but at least this behavious did not deepen the rift between them.

Talking to Greg had heartened John as well, although he could not rid himself of the notion that Greg was lonely, now that his wife had ditched him for good. He really hoped that the barmaid had been nice … John smiled, when he remembered the smug grin on Greg's face.

What a pair they had made, John thought, a ditched husband and a … well what was he at the end of the day? A _confirmed bachelor_, yes, that's what life had determined him to be. John's smile broadened when he thought of that nickname the tabloids had chosen for him all those years ago. He still was, wasn't he? A confirmed bachelor.

A paperback slipped out of his hand and toppled to the floor. John bent down to pick it up and gently blew the dust from the cover. 'Excuse me,' he said, stepping over Sherlock's long outstretched legs. Sherlock was lounging in his leather chair and raised his brows inquiringly when he saw John's happy face.

'Why are you smiling, John?' he demanded, not unfriendly, steepling his fingers beneath his chin in his customary fashion.

'Oh, nothing really. I was just recalling the nicknames the tabloids had chosen for us. Confirmed bachelor for me and …'

'_Boffin_ for me.' Sherlock finished the sentence, scoffing, but not adding more.

John chuckled, leaning down to retrieve a pack of Sherlock's nicotine-patches that had managed to wedge itself between the carpet and the chair's leg. With a grunt he straightened his back. 'Are you still using those? I'd thought you'd overcome that particular ...' John turned around to confront Sherlock, but his gaze only met an empty chair.

Surprised he turned around to scan the room, but Sherlock had gone. He must have sneaked out of the room like a cat, completely unnoticed. John frowned and then it hit him. _Bachelor_ – _Boffin_ - the tabloid incident, these terms and everything else was of course closely linked to Moriarty and the events that had led up to Sherlock's disappearance.

And then John remembered something else - where he had smiled at the memory they had shared just a moment ago, Sherlock's features had grown serious and sad, had fairly clouded over. A vacant look had invaded his eyes, indicating that this train of thought took him far, far away - and then he had fled.

Softly cursing under his breath John hastily put down the box of nicotine patches and set out to follow him.

* * *

**A/N** Thank you for all your feedback! Please keep it up!

I got the impression that the story still does not show on the 'updated' page - Could you tell me if you found it there? I'd be very grateful!

**A very special thank you goes to MapleleafCameo who helped me out of a tiny writer's block I had with this chapter;-D Thank you so much, my dear! Go and read her Johnlock stories, she's a fantastic writer and a lovely person!**

JJ


	4. Dawn

**Dawn**

John found Sherlock in his bedroom, sitting on the tangled sheets of his unmade bed. He was facing away from the door and all John could see were his lean shoulders and back and the dark curly hair, the ringlets caressing his slender, pale nape. How fragile he looked with his bony shoulders and the vertebrae clearly visible through the thin fabric of his white shirt.

Looking at him in the milky light filtering in trough the half-drawn curtains, John was astounded how remarkably unchanged his appearance was. Apart from the fact that he was even skinnier than before - counterbalanced by the fact that he was more athletic nowadays - and a few more lines around his eyes and mouth, he still possessed this distinct ethereal beauty he did not even seem to be aware of. John was, though, and he knew from all those furtive looks aimed at Sherlock when they were out and about that this look appealed to women and men alike. Unbidden a daring thought flittered across his mind, and he saw Sherlock using his looks to get what he wanted, he saw mocking half-smiles and lascivious winks answering leering eyes. Shuddering with the implication of those images he closed his eyes for a second, willing to focus and to reign in his wild fantasies.

In an attempt to clear his mind from all disturbing thoughts John wiped his hands over his face before he softly rapped his knuckles against the doorframe. There was no reaction and so he hesitated, unsure if his presence was wished for and his intrusion welcome. He knocked again.

'Come in, John.' Sherlock softly said, not bothering to lift his head.

John nodded, more to reassure himself than anything else and straightened his back, preparing for whatever might be lurking in the room - or in Sherlock. He slowly walked around the bed towards him, making sure to keep a comfortable distance. Although John wanted to face him, to talk to him, he had no intention of making him feel cornered or threatened.

Sherlock was looking down, his mouth pinched and a deep furrow above his nose, his whole being harshly focused on something he was holding in his hands. It looked like a notebook, one of those black leather-bound ones he used for his case notes. This was a larger version, battered, with a stained cover, and when Sherlock absent-mindedly leafed through it, John could see that it was densely filled with his spidery handwriting.

'I kept a journal,' Sherlock said, his voice flat, without emotion. 'I tried to keep track of where I went and what … happened.' Annihilating the intensity he had focused on the notebook a few seconds ago, he tossed it carelessly onto the bed and buried his head in his hands. 'You can read it if you want.'

Only one step more and John was close, next to him, gingerly picking up the notebook. Undecided he hovered close to his friend, but when he made to sit down on the bed, he noticed Sherlock flinch.

'I'd prefer you to sit over there, John … please?'

'All right – okay. No problem.'

John walked over to the little upholstered chair, next to the wooden chest of drawers. He sat down, facing the bed and Sherlock, who stubbornly refused to look up and meet his eyes. When he started flicking trough the pages, it was all a bit of a blur, his eyes somehow unable to anchor to a syntactic structure and only fit to make out the odd word here and there. He blinked, trying to focus.

From the corner of his eyes, John could see Sherlock shuffle on the soft bed, trying to meet a resistance, something to prop him up, give him posture. He would still not look up, but let his gaze linger on his fidgeting fingers. A small frown knitted his brows as if he was marvelling at their restlessness, wondering why they had a life of their own. This isolated, but constant movement was disconcerting in Sherlock, in someone who was such a master of concentration and poise and John wondered what made him so nervous. With a barely suppressed frustrated groan he turned his attention back to the notebook and flicked through the densely filled pages.

'Start with June, the 16th,' Sherlock quietly demanded and John followed his lead, reading what Sherlock had written about the day he had vanished. Learned why he had gone, why he had left him, what he had sacrificed. It took all the self-control he could muster not to fling the journal into a corner then and there, get up and leave immediately. He firmly closed his eyes for a moment, trying to keep a lid on his boiling anger, trying to calm down before he was able to read on.

When he was through he looked up, his mouth pinched, waiting for the next order. '10 September next, John,' Sherlock urged him on and John read an account of how Sherlock had untangled the outer layers of Moriarty's web. He had still been in London then, so close and yet unable to show himself or to make it known to John or anybody else that he was still alive.

The narrative was sober most of the time, the attempt to keep sentiment out of it more than obvious. But John, who knew Sherlock like no other, could read between the lines. And that tale was a very different one. Desperation and consternation that Moriarty, even dead, could play him like that, were more than evident. John swallowed around a lump in his throat when he realised the underlying profound sadness and most of all the loneliness in Sherlock's account.

'Now go to 25 December,' Sherlock promptly guided him, once he had finished, forcing him to read the gut-wrenching account of a Christmas Day, spent somewhere in Ireland, hiding from two of Moriarty's minions who had come dangerously close and had forced him to lie low. John could fairly smell the resinous scent of the wood fire in the shabby cottage, could feel the unrelenting cold seeping into his bones and had to shake his head to get rid of those bleak images.

Triggered by this account his thoughts travelled back to the first Christmas Day he had spent alone, here at 221B, in company of a numbing bottle of whisky and Mrs Hudson's occasional shallow, but well-meant chatter. Warm tears welled up in his eyes, as much for himself as for Sherlock, but he blinked them away furiously. No use to cry over _that_ anymore – and instinctively he prepared himself for bleaker and even worse tales to come.

If Sherlock noticed John's inner turmoil he did not let on, but just waited for a sign to continue, and then he guided him onwards and through the entire three years of his absence. Sherlock picked the dates he considered important, the ones he wanted John to know about and John read everything, without commenting, taking it all in: Tales of conceit, of bribery and of theft followed by accounts of pursuits, flight and of death. John fought hard to keep his face impassive even when he wanted to curse, scream, weep, rant, but most of all comfort Sherlock and find comfort in Sherlock, wrap his arms around him and tell him that he was not alone and that there was no need to worry anymore.

When he was done reading he closed the notebook on the last entry - _Sebastian Moran is dead. Time to go home_ - with something close to finality and glanced up at Sherlock.

He sat on the bed, still hanging his head, his fingers still fidgeting, and John silently winced when he saw that there was none of his admirable posture left. It was as if dignity and grace were superfluous, not needed, and certainly not important now.

'Can I … can I ask you some questions?' John asked when he had finally found a voice he could command.

'Yes,' Sherlock simply replied.

'Who was Sebastian Moran?'

'Moriarty's right hand,' Sherlock softly explained. 'After Moriarty's suicide he was the one coordinating the hunt for me. It took me three years to take him out of the game. But when I got him, the cornerstone, everything finally collapsed enabling me to come home.'

John tilted his head to the side, 'I knew a Sebastian Moran once…'

Sherlock's head shot up and his eyes narrowed, 'You did?' When?'

'In the army. We were in Afghanistan together. He was one of our best marksmen.'

'How well did you know him?'

'Not very well. I kept a distance to the bloody likes of him. I could never warm to the way he was bragging among his friends when he came back from a mission. He glorified killing and bathed in the misery of innocent people.' A shiver went over John's back and he had to force himself to keep his face impassive. But Sherlock saw the emotions flicker over his features and nodded. 'A cold killer, that's what he was,' John continued, smiling weakly, and finding reassurance in the interested gaze Sherlock gave him.

'Brilliant!' Sherlock whispered quite unexpectedly and a flash of his old self gleamed through all the misery.

'What is?'

'Moriarty using Moran as yet another way to get to me through _you_. I always wondered why Moriarty would trust such a cold, wooden beast, but I can see it now. He could be certain I would chase him …' his voice trailed off, his eyes glazing over and his mind suddenly far away. John did not want let him disappear into a past he could not share and asked, 'Your last entry was _Sebastian Moran is dead _– what exactly happened to him?'

Sherlock blinked, coming back, and looked down on his hands again, willing them to remain still for a moment. The answer when it came was delivered in a flat, disconnected voice, 'I killed him.'

John flinched when the enormity of this confession hit him and stupefied by Sherlock's simple words he thought – _Murder, of course, that was the missing word! He hurled the words abduction, brainwashing and rape at me, but not murder_ – Inhaling he lifted his chin, tearing his gaze away from Sherlock as conflicting thoughts were racing through him. He did not judge Sherlock, of course not, as there was really no moral ground for him to stand upon. He had killed himself. All those years ago, when he had not hesitated one second to kill a man for Sherlock, barely two days after they had met. He had rescued Sherlock by killing this man and would gladly have done it again for him. No hesitation then and most importantly no regret.

Nonetheless he knew what being close to death and decay could do to the human psyche, and nightmares had indeed haunted him after he had seen good men die in the war and after he had been shot at. Awful nightmares, cured by his life with Sherlock, by chasing cruel and vicious perpetrators with him, fighting exciting and rewarding battles with this admirable madman.

But Sherlock was different - John knew for certain that he was not a squeamish man, was not repelled by violence, but he also knew that he had never killed before. And so far he could only guess about the circumstances surrounding Moran's violent death.

Slowly he let his gaze wander back to Sherlock who would still not face him. The animated look from a minute ago when he had talked about Moran had completely left his face, to be replaced by a strangely inanimate expression. His eyes were unfocused, empty, and his body deadly still except for his fingers.

John's gaze dropped to his hands, to the ivory skin, the unblemished palms and those beautiful, slender fingers – and he frowned when he realised Sherlock was rubbing his hands together as if he was washing them, cleaning them of something unpleasant that was clinging persistently to the skin.

Slowly first, but quickly building up a faster rhythm, and John knew that his confession must have triggered this undoubtedly ritualistic behaviour, a behaviour he was unable to consciously command. A pained expression cut through Sherlock's features, disgust, repulsion even as he was rubbing the palms together, turning them like one would underneath the soothing flow of cold water, but he was scrubbing them with his fingernails, digging deep, scratching, drawing blood, and unrelentingly scrubbing, frantically scrubbing …

'Stop that!' John softly said, but to no avail. 'Stop that, Sherlock' he repeated, louder this time. But Sherlock seemed to be in a kind of trance, somewhere else, desperately trying to get rid of… 'Blood, there's so much blood' he mumbled, rubbing and scratching until John lurched forward and grabbed his hands.

'Stop it, Sherlock! Stop it, please! There's nothing wrong. There is no blood on your hands.'

'Don't touch me!' Sherlock snapped, his voice almost unrecognisable. 'I'm dirty, my hands are full of blood. I'm dirty - _dirty_, John. Don't touch me…'

John almost recoiled when the panic and disgust in Sherlock hit him, but then his medical training kicked in and he calmed down and knew what he had to do.

'All right, all right Sherlock. I will not touch you, but I will sit down next to you. See, there's nothing to worry about.' John let go of his hands, but let them hover right over Sherlock's, not touching as he had promised, but not severing their connection either.

The long, slender fingers, uncontrollable moments ago, eventually stilled, the frantic breathing finally slowed down and after what seemed an eternity, John dared touching Sherlock again.

Gingerly he enveloped his left hand in his own, and this time he let him. Surprised John registered how cold and rough his skin was, in need of ministrations, in need of everything. Cautiously John slipped his arm around Sherlock's waist, drawing him near. And as if no resistance was left in him, Sherlock obeyed and let his head sink against John's chest. A stuttering breath escaped his mouth and John felt his whole body relax, the tension of the past weeks leaving him, making him fairly melt against John's body.

Fiercely John wrapped his arms around his distraught friend and held him, willing to protect and most of all willing to forgive.

* * *

**A/N** Right, there's hope for the boys …

Thank you all for your feedback, my dears! Please keep it up, it really makes my day! JJ


	5. Dawn II

**Dawn II**

Slowly and purposefully John let his hand glide over Sherlock's arm, up and down, caressing the skin through the thin fabric. 'I'm here, Sherlock,' he whispered into the cold silence of the room. 'I'm here – with you. You're home.'

Sherlock bit his lips, and did not answer, but his grip tightened on John's hand - _necessary, oh so necessary_ - to anchor himself to his friend. John watched the movements of his fingers, the straining of the tendons, the knuckles going white with the sheer force of this steely grip. His gaze wandered away from the knuckles to the fresh scratches on the back of Sherlock's hand, and was stopped by one single drop of blood oozing out from one particularly deep scratch. Without thinking he lifted both their hands and kissed the blood away. It felt natural to him, but Sherlock tensed when John's lips met his bruised skin.

'I'm sorry, Sherlock,' John softly said. 'I wasn't thinking. I don't want to frighten you.'

'You don't,' Sherlock replied, his voice croaky and alien. He loosened his grip and John was sure he was to sever their connection there and then, but he only let go to intensify their touch by intertwining their fingers, lacing them firmly together. 'You really don't, John.'

They continued to sit in silence, both unwilling to speak. Sherlock was tired, tired and drained and sick to the bone to be weighted down by the past and the burden he had brought back with him – all the memories, sounds, smells and images – But sitting here in close proximity to John, he felt that he was no longer alone in this, and what was quite overwhelming after three years of solitude, was the realization that they were in fact both caught in what seemed an oppressive cloud of memories. Granted, they were coming at it from different angles, but they suffered just the same.

An overall grey cloud it was, tinged with darker grey and even deepest black here and there, shrouding them, forcing both of them to think back to the past three years. Sherlock lightly shook his head in an attempt to chase those blasted memories away – it was enough now – _enough_! - and really time to move on. Shyly he glanced at John who seemed just as preoccupied. His gaze flickered back to the floor, to the chest of drawers, to the wardrobe, taking in his room, his reality. Becoming aware of the warmth emanating from his hand he glanced down, and his heart leapt, just a tiny and very insecure leap, when the implication of what he saw and what he was doing, hit him.

He was voluntarily touching somebody and he could allow skin on skin contact.

His throat tightened with the implication of this moment, with the concession how comforting this basic human interaction was - just a touch really, nothing special from a sober and analytical point of view, but what made it bearable for him, no what it made it outstanding, was the fact that it was John's touch. How good it felt, how oddly soothing and calming. And what more it was slowly erasing the memory of the other touch, the one that haunted him when he was not alert enough … Unconsciously he blinked, thus coercing his mind, which had began to wander, back to the here and now.

Confused Sherlock dropped his gaze to their intertwined fingers again. He frowned, yes, he very well saw the intimate touch and understood what it meant, but how, for God's sakes, had they arrived here? When barely thirty minutes ago there had been a ravine dividing them, bottomless and dark and seemingly impossible to bridge? Sherlock closed his eyes on the onslaught of those _hows_ and _whys_ and let himself be controlled solely by this feeling of comfort, seeping from John's touch into his whole body, into his heart.

And so they continued to sit, close to each other, seconds turning into minutes and minutes into more, watching the gradual shifting of the shadows as the day progressed. Eventually it was Sherlock who broke the pensive silence, and what he said juxtaposed the outward normality and calm of this situation. In fact, his words brought back with a vengeance that he was not the same anymore, was changed by what he had gone through, his once amazing vitality and sparkle somewhat dulled and bleached.

'I'm unbelievably tired, John. My arms and my legs … so heavy … I can hardly move. It's as if I needed to sleep for days.'

'Yeah, _yeah_ … I guess you must be tired.' John was quick to agree. 'I'll just let you be and you can sleep awhile. Get some rest.' John stirred as if to get up, 'I'll be in the li...' he had no opportunity to finish the word as the firm grip was back, slender fingers holding him in a steely vice. Sherlock's voice, hoarse and insistent, interrupted him, 'Can't you stay?'

John tilted his head to the side, and if he was surprised by this demand, he made a good job of hiding it. 'Right – okay. Of course, I can.' The nervous clearing of his throat was the only indicator of his agitation, the slight trembling of his voice almost indiscernible. 'Do you want me to sit over there, in the chair? I can get a book and do some catching up on this awful novel I've been trying to read for a while.'

Sherlock shook his head and then it was his turn to clear his throat, paving the way for an even bigger and more unusual favour he needed to ask. 'No, John. Actually I want you to lie down with me. Would you? … Please?'

'Yes, that's … fine, I guess,' John tried to gauge the seriousness behind Sherlock's words, and glanced at him sideways. The turmoil he saw in his face, surprise fighting with tiredness, made him infinitely sad. These past weeks John had stubbornly tried to fight his initial impression that Sherlock was a mere a shadow of his former self. But what he saw now only served to corroborate his fear - The way he was sitting on the bed with slumped shoulders, his breathing flat and shallow and the self-inflicted scratches on his hands as a blatant evidence of his distress - All this combined into a picture of someone utterly exhausted by life.

John got up then, because he had to move, but he immediately realised that Sherlock could not let him go, not even for a tiny moment and fought to keep their fingers intertwined. John dropped his gaze to their hands, 'Sherlock, maybe we just have to let go for a moment,' he gently admonished him. Sherlock's reaction was a click of his tongue, it sounded angry, an almost feral sound, but eventually he relented.

John remained standing close to him, deciding how to proceed from here - should he just slip underneath the covers and wait for Sherlock to follow his example or should he ...?

Narrowing his eyes he studied him for a moment and found his friend's posture telling him that he would not move on his own account. So with a grunt, stiff all over from sitting in the same position for too long, John bent down to remove his shoes and socks. It did not feel strange at all to care for him like that, not at all. Scanning the room for a place to leave his things, he straightened his back and turned to the side to neatly arrange the shoes and socks next to the chest of drawers. He returned to Sherlock and gently, gently he made him lie back on the bed, covering him with the sheets.

Again he was hit by the fact that there was seemingly no resistance, no fight left in him. Looking down on Sherlock he met his intense gaze which was entirely focused on him and his movements. Not breaking their eye contact he shed his own shoes, socks, and jumper. While he walked around the bed to the other side and slipped underneath the covers next to him, Sherlock turned onto his side, facing away and curled up into a foetal position. Again John was surprised by this move and not sure what was expected of him now.

'Is there anything I can do for you?' he asked, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth he became aware how ambiguous and awkward they must sound to ears as prone to perceiving all nuances as Sherlock's. Angrily he bit his lip, but no snarky comment graced his glitch. Strangely the lack of an angry rebuke disturbed him more than any sarcasm or irony could have.

'Sherlock?' John tenderly placed a hand on his lean back and was surprised when he found relaxed muscles and deep and regular breathing. John pushed himself up on his elbows and peered at Sherlock – _Jesus_, _he must have been exhausted_ - and smiled when he saw the near peaceful expression sleep had painted onto his features. It was the first time since his return that John truly recognised him, recognised the confident and strong features that had always made his friend so special.

With a sigh John sank back onto the pillows and tried to find some rest, too. A hand, resting on Sherlock's hip, secured their bond. And in his dreamless sleep Sherlock felt John's touch and the calmness surrounding them seeped into his soul, tethering him firmly to his friend, to his one and only, to his only wanted friend.

oOo

'Tell me about you,' a disembodied voice floating through the almost absolute darkness of the room demanded. A velvety, low and sensuous voice, still a bit sleepy, but sounding much more like himself than before. They had slept for the best part of the day and night, and now Sherlock was prepared to take yet another step towards normality.

'What do you want to know?'

'Did you work for the Yard while I was away?'

'Yes, I did actually. Lestrade called me in on a more or less regular basis. Wasn't easy for him, after the disaster with …' John stopped, too late becoming aware of what he had been about to say. 'Well, you know … After all the uproar your _illegal_ connection with the Yard and your apparent disclosure as a fake caused … Anyway, at first he couldn't summon me without raising too many awkward questions. For a while everybody was insecure, easily taking sides, and believe me it wasn't always yours. It was a hard time, it really was, but I never doubted you, Sherlock, always stood up for you.' John just talked, not waiting for a reaction, 'To be honest the Yard wasn't very enticing for me in the first months anyway as I could not face the likes of Donovan and Anderson. I felt sick only thinking of them …'

A low scoff, almost a chuckle and John turned onto his side, facing the shadow lying next to him. A very faint outline of his body was all he could see, but he could feel warmth emanating from this shadow and he was very aware of his unmistakable scent engulfing him. John closed his eyes and gulped back the memory of rifling through Sherlock's things in desperate search for a shirt or a dressing gown that would still bear this scent. The fleeting image of how he had scoured the flat for a piece a him, however insubstantial, crossed his mind.

But now he was there, real, next to him, and John luxuriated in widening his nostrils the better to inhale this scent in abundance. A predominantly fresh, lemony scent, mixed with traces of smoke and the slightly metallic smell of chemicals. John had long ceased to wonder how Sherlock's scent could consist of those particular things as he had given up smoking years ago, and John had personally and forcefully forbidden the more pungent chemical reactions to be carried out in their kitchen right from the start.

'Thank you,' Sherlock murmured eventually, dragging John's mind back to the present. John had no trouble following this mental leap, knew exactly why he had thanked him and continued to talk. 'That doesn't mean I did not curse you on a more or less daily basis. There were times when I hated you for leaving me behind in this mess, leaving me alone. Hated you with a passion,' he said ruefully. 'But upholding my belief in you and the urge to defend you against others somewhat helped.' Momentarily his thoughts became trapped in the past and a gentle nudge was necessary to bring him back. He uttered the first thought that wandered across to his mind, 'Greg was a great help. He became a very good friend.'

'Greg?'

'Gregory Lestrade, Sherlock. Don't tell me you deleted his name again,' John said, only half-jokingly.

'I probably did, John.' Sherlock didn't elaborate, but they both knew what he insinuated. His mind palace, used to store all relevant data, must be full to the brim with the snippets of the past three years, quite possibly eliminating the seemingly less important facts of his former life.

'John, I can't tell you how much this means to me. You believing in me although all evidence pointed to the contrary.'

'How could I not, Sherlock? I know you, I've lived with you, we worked together, we were …'

'Yes?'

'You were my best friend, how could I possibly have abandoned you?'

And this and only _this_ was the bloody truth. Of course, it was! No matter how angry he might have been or still was, no matter how often he might have cursed him, no matter how often he might have been embarrassed by his behaviour, there was not _one_ single person in this unfair and cruel and exhilarating world he would rather be cross or exasperated with than Sherlock. And - let's face it - Sherlock needed John just as much, as his interpreter, as the one who mediated between this puzzling world, inhabited by dull, ordinary people, and his own perception and assumption of it.

Astonishingly this realization, that Sherlock _was_ in fact his world, indeed had been from the word go, hit John hard. It was like a brick reality had chosen to hurl at him, impatiently and with gritted teeth, and smack into his chest to make him finally, _finally_ see. The impact was such that it made him gasp involuntarily and tightly clench his fists.

'What is it, John? Of course Sherlock had noticed the shifting of the atmosphere immediately and turned to John, a worried frown knitting his brows.

'Nothing, I just …' he started to say, intending to back down as usual, but then he scoffed and decided to be blunt and bold and above all brave, and honest, let's not forget _honest_, once and for all. If not now, then when? John reached out into the velvety blackness until his hand touched Sherlock's chest, astonished how near he was, how close.

'Sherlock, I've never told you,' John began, quietly, no need to speak up in this dark nothingness. 'And maybe I didn't because I never realised myself … but now, I know for certain, well as certain as I can be, that I defended you because I know you, because I believe in you. And even if I say I would, I could not leave you, could never leave you, or send you away because … because _you_ are my world, Sherlock.' John paused, listening to the echo of the circuitous explanation that had just left his mouth, insecurity resurfacing whether it might not better be taken back, but then a new wave of boldness washed over him. 'I have no idea what you will do with that knowledge or if it means anything to you, or if it's too late, but there … I've said it.'

John fell silent, waiting, a blush mercifully hidden by the darkness creeping up his neck, and when no answer came he would have given up there and then, had it not been for the pounding of Sherlock's heart that he could feel through the fabric of his shirt. Unmistakably, right there beneath his fingertips.

'Your heart started beating quite fast, Sherlock,' John remarked softly.

'Indeed, John. It has,' Sherlock conceded.

'What do you make of it?'

'I cherish it, John,' Sherlock covered John's hand with his own, but otherwise remained where he was. 'I truly cherish it.'

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**A/N** Thank you so much for your lovely feedback! I cherish every single review, favourite, alert just like Sherlock cherishes John … JJ

There's more to come, so please stay with me and this story ... :)


	6. Day

**Dear **_**WitchRavenFox**_**, this is for you, my friend. I hope it'll cheer you up a bit and will offer some respite from studying … **

* * *

**Day**

Lestrade ever so lightly touched John's elbow in an attempt to drag his attention away from the bustling crime scene. When John looked up Greg motioned to him to follow.

A quick glance at Sherlock assured John that his absence would not be noted as he was entirely absorbed in examining light turquoise paint traces they had found on the wall in the narrow hallway of the victim's house. John pocketed his pen and notebook and got up to follow Lestrade through to the living room. This strange behaviour piqued his curiosity and he wanted to know why he was wanted alone.

'Greg?' John opened the conversation as soon as he entered the room, a notable question mark hanging in the air between them. Lestrade did not answer immediately, but went to close the door on the buzz of a house swarming with police and forensics. Greg was not usually a devotee of secret-mongering, but quite obviously he had a reason for wanting to keep this conversation private. With a charming smile, all dazzling white teeth, Greg turned. He buried his hands in his trouser pockets and slightly rocking on the balls of his feet he asked, 'How's life, John? Everything all right?'

'Yes, I guess so,' John answered, not deceived by this innocuous beginning of their conversation. 'Life's good, everything's fine. I'm fine … we're fine.'

'Yeah …' Lestrade's smile slowly faded away, morphing into a more serious expression, the friendliness replaced by real concern. 'I noticed that Sherlock is much more himself these days. He was in splendid form today, dazzling really. I can't even begin to tell you how glad I am to have the old team back together.'

'Yeah – he was amazing,' John nodded, thinking back to Sherlock's brilliant and flawless deductions, the dazzling display of his unique ability to read clues and to make exactly the right connections. He had been fairly glowing, his face animated and alive. 'Work definitely helps, Greg. Keeps him on his toes, occupies his restless mind, gives him a purpose. And he works quite a lot, actually. If you don't summon us he keeps busy with cold cases. Goes through all his old notes, checks and re-checks.'

Lestrade snorted, a friendly, sympathetic kind of snort, and crossed his arms in front of his chest, settling into the conversation. John adopted a more relaxed stance himself and continued, easily slipping into a confidential mood with his friend.

'I try to keep locum work to a minimum at the moment and my term at the hospital is ending next week anyway. I don't think I will be going back to it because I don't want to let him alone too much. Mrs Hudson told me he keeps entirely to himself when I'm gone, but we talk, talk a lot … most nights, really. Sherlock tells me about his fight against Moriarty, the past three years, and I listen.' John's face darkened, 'Greg, he went through … horrendous things.' Lestrade nodded, yes, he'd suspected as much. 'And … now he goes through those bouts of … darkness that weigh him down, but he is willing to share, opens up to me more and more, as much as he can really …'

'How does he feel about a shrink?' Lestrade intercepted.

John huffed indignantly and tilted his head to the side. 'No bloody way, Greg. He's adamant that _these people_ don't know a hair's breadth about what happened to him and he claims he has his own infallible methods and enough knowledge of PTSD and triggers and bloody _everything_ to help himself …' John smiled weakly, the echoes of countless discussions apparent in this smile. 'You know what he's like, stubborn as an old mule.'

'_You_ can help,' Lestrade simply said.

'True,' John assented. 'I can help and I do.' He nodded to help the next thought on its way and fixing his eyes on Lestrade he continued to explain. 'There _are_ light moments, more and more these days actually, and he's certainly less strained and more open to everything. And most importantly he's less angry with himself …' a quick frown flickered over John's face as if he had just realised something, 'With all of us, really.'

'Oh I wouldn't go that far, John,' Lestrade smirked and John could not help but answer his smug smile. 'Yeah – right. Anderson absolutely asked for it, though,' John huffed, remembering a scene from barely twenty minutes ago. 'Come on, Greg, he walked straight into Sherlock's sarcasm. It's as if some things and some _people_ never change, eh? _Jesus_, why does he always have to be so sloppy? Even I get mad with him when he fiddles with evidence endlessly, dropping half of it on the floor in the process.'

'Oh, don't be so hard on him, John. Anybody is sloppy according to Sherlock's standards. I have no problem whatsoever with Anderson. He's good a man basically - a bit gullible maybe.'

'Right, right. He's your man and I'll take your word for it.' John held up his hands in mock surrender and smiled.

'_You_ all right, John?' Greg asked casually, referring to their conversation from some weeks ago. A quick glance at his watch and the door told John that he was itching to get back to the case at hand.

'Yeah, yeah, slowly getting there …' John said tentatively, tasting the thought, but then he renewed his smile, seemingly open and honest. 'No, there's nothing to worry about. I'm fine, Greg. I'm absolutely fine.'

oOo

One hour and a half and endless conversations with Anderson and his colleagues later Lestrade finished his briefing with two young DCs and went back through to the hall to get Sherlock's final verdict on the case. But neither Sherlock nor John could be found in the hallway, gloomy now what with all the police lights dismantled and packed away.

'Sherlock? John?' Lestrade called, but the only thing answering him was his own voice, the echo thrown back at him from the stark walls. Suddenly the backdoor at the end of the hallway clapped softly when a draft opened and closed it, and Lestrade walked towards it, albeit with an almost innate sense of cautiousness. Edging nearer he could hear soft murmuring voices through the door which now stood slightly ajar. A low unmistakably baritone and a higher, but no less pleasant voice, and his steps faltered - he really had no intention of prying. Lestrade bit his lips, insecure how to proceed, but he needed to talk to these two before he could wrap it up for today.

When he heard a low, soft chuckle, followed by silence, he was almost certain that he should turn around, but curiosity won the better of him. Careful not to make any noise he walked towards the end of the hallway and peered through the crack of the door.

Sherlock and John were standing very close together, their heads so close that it was difficult to make out where Sherlock ended and John began. Lestrade stood rooted to the spot, in the shameful knowledge that what he was doing was wrong.

But he could not tear his gaze away from John's face. An open, warm and completely unguarded smile graced his handsome features and he chuckled softly at something Sherlock had said. Lestrade's gaze was drawn to John's hands as he lifted them and lightly stroked over the lapels of Sherlock's coat. Slowly he let his head sink against his chest and Sherlock bent his head and rested his chin on the crown of his head, closing his eyes. Lestrade was fascinated by the expression on Sherlock's face. It was unlike anything he had ever seen on him, unlike anything he would ever expect to see on the face of this over-analytical and often cold and off-putting man.

Lestrade gulped drily, touched by this intimate moment and absolutely sure that he should no longer be witness to it. He tore his gaze away and quietly walked back up the hallway. Making sure to be overheard this time, he loudly called, 'Sherlock, John, just a quick word …' before purposefully and noisily walking up to the backdoor and opening it with a flourish.

He found Sherlock and John standing next to each other, close, but not touching and awaiting him. Lestrade was amazed and disappointed to see that it seemed as if this tender moment had never happened.

oOo

The day had been good, all things considered. Sherlock had been outstanding, impressing John, Lestrade and overwhelming the two new DCs who had worked with him for the first time. But now in the cab home he was quiet and withdrawn. John glanced at him and feared Sherlock had left him for today, had gone to his mind palace, gone to the past. The way he pressed his forehead against the window pane, the vibrations of the motor shuddering through him unnoticed, told John that he was not seeing the rapidly darkening London streets whooshing by, did not listen to the occasional ill-tempered cursing of the cabbie, but was lost in his own inner thoughts and dramas.

John leaned forward and slid the glass partition dividing the cabbie from the passengers shut, thus making the silence in the cab even more profound. Gently he placed his hand on top of Sherlock's fingers which were resting on his thigh, trying to still the constant twitching. Entirely unnoticed the streets passed by, constantly and in a never ending succession of houses and people - but the world was turning without Sherlock taking part.

'Sherlock,' John softly said, he had to try and get through to him although he expected no reply. Sighing he slid closer to him, wanting to coax him back, to the here and now of their life, back to him. He could not allow Sherlock to be swallowed by this dark and bottomless bleakness again. It would be the third time in two weeks and it seemed to him these bouts were becoming more and frequent.

In contrast to what he had told Lestrade, Sherlock was in fact not casually getting better and better like it was the easiest thing in the world – no, he was not even near something that could be called a full recovery. Instead, it was a painstakingly slow and exasperating process, and sometimes it seemed to John that they were taking one step forward only to be thrown two steps back.

Today it was fairly obvious why he would retreat into himself. Returning home, adrenalin from the buzz and stimulus of a crime scene running through his veins, was a numbing low after an exciting high even at the best of times. They had gone through this countless times before as Sherlock had never been a very balanced and easy character and had in fact always been prone to dark and broody moods - But now those bouts were not only characterised by restlessness, but laced with profound sadness and anger.

John gently caressed his hand, running his fingertips along his slender digits, the cool back of his hands, building a soothing rhythm. He let his head slump against his shoulder and was simply there, with him, accompanying him through this low, ready to stay with him.

When the cab bumped over something in the road Sherlock's head smacked against the window and shaking like a dog coming in from the cold he returned to reality. John marvelled that this slight physical discomfort had been enough to bring him back this time and decided to take comfort from this fact.

'John,' Sherlock said numbly and grabbed his hand, holding on. 'What did you tell Lestrade?' The question seemed odd, somehow disconnected, but John was used to Sherlock's mental leaps and had no trouble catching on.

'He asked how we were doing. I told him.'

'Did you tell him about us?'

'Us?'

'Yes – us – the new _stage_ we're in. You know what I mean,' he said impatiently, breaking their connection and taking out his phone to check what life had done to the world in his absence.

'I did not, in fact. It's none of his business and besides, he did not want to know about that, he was just being friendly, friendly as in a _friend_, Sherlock. He worries about you … and me. So he just asked and I told him that we're slowly getting there.'

'John, do we have to go through this every day? I told you I absolutely refuse to be talked into submission by any quack who happens to have read some Freud.'

'How can you possibly …?' John said, exasperation already tinging his tone. 'Oh, never mind … '

Unconsciously John moved away a tiny bit, making place for the anger that wanted to squeeze in between them.

'Sherlock, you know that I think you would actually benefit from talking to a professional.' Sherlock snorted mirthlessly. 'But I accept that you think you can go through this alone and yes, we have agreed that we would give it some time and that's what we're doing.'

'Oh, but you're wrong, John.' Sherlock said, his fingers quickly sliding over the display of his phone. John felt his anger kindled with the impact of his words.

'Yes – Right. I never seem to know anything and I always seem to be wrong. You never fail to point that out.'

'No need to get flustered. Just let me finish. I said, you are wrong, I am not alone and I won't go through this alone.' Sherlock stopped fiddling with his phone and glanced at him sideways before he quietly added, 'How can I be alone when I have you, John.'

John's heart clenched at this admission, but the anger would not budge, not yet. With panic he realised that it seemed to take longer and longer to bite back the irritation he felt with Sherlock. How could he always make him feel so exasperated?

He dipped his chin and pursed his lips, but the only conciliatory reaction he could muster was a nod. Sherlock sensed that John was slipping out of his grasp and immediately regretted his words, regretted that he could not hold his tongue, that he never knew when to stop, regretted that he had hurt John.

'I'm sorry, John. I really am sorry. Forgive me,' and he grabbed his hand again, establishing contact, but it was not enough and on impulse he wrapped his arms around John who responded instinctively, finally able to accept his apology.

Sherlock broke their embrace after a moment, but he did not turn away, and let his eyes roam over John's face that he knew like nothing in this world, a face that he loved like nothing in this world. But John dropped his gaze, trying to evade his searching eyes. Oh but Sherlock would not have that and cupped his chin, forcing him to look up into his eyes. His gaze was intense and John felt his skin tingle with anticipation.

'John, I am aware that I am awful and frankly I don't know why you still put up with me. Often I don't know what my words do to people and more often than not I simply cannot hold them back, they just leave my mouth and then they are like daggers piercing skin and …' he bit his lips and drew some breath. 'Bear with me, John. Please, I _am_ trying and I know I cannot do it without you.' John closed his eyes for a second and exhaled, slowly, to savour the words, taste them, cherish their meaning.

'Right - I'm here, Sherlock. I'm here.' He finally said and opened his eyes. Sherlock was very close now, fairly crowding him in and John's heart skipped a beat.

The past weeks had seen them getting accustomed to intimacy, but had not yet seen them leave the realm of almost innocent, chaste caresses, hugs and what could be called noncommittal tenderness. They had not taken a step, _the_ decisive step further.

John's heart started pounding in his ears, loud, insistent and demanding. Sherlock's bright eyes fixed on him, their intense gaze and what he saw in them, made him go weak, and instinctively he closed his eyes again to stop the world from spinning out of orbit. Sherlock watched him, attentively, curious, a furrow forming between his brows, and he waited, waited for John to turn his attention back on him.

His thumbs trailed tender circles on his skin, he came so close that their breath mixed and John's closeness made Sherlock's skin hot and tingly and his breath hitched in his throat. John heard and answered it with a sigh. Then he opened his eyes - and the second their eyes locked again Sherlock leaned in and pressed his lips on John's.

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**A/N** This was the _DAY_, naturally followed by the _Nigh_t …

Thank you all so much for your feedback, I hope you liked that chapter as well!

JJ


	7. Night

**Night**

It was a promise, nothing more.

How could it be more, here, in the cab, with a grumpy cabbie busy sending piercing glares through his rearview mirror? John chuckled when one particularly fiery gaze hit him. Doing his best to ignore the man, he kissed Sherlock back, tiny, soft kisses, just on the verge of a promise of more, much more to come. John smiled against Sherlock's lips and was rewarded with a low chuckle.

'Mates! 221b Baker Street. _End_ of journey,' the voice of the cabbie made itself heard. Obviously he was trying his utmost to sound strict and very _don't get fresh with me, mates -_ but the effect was reduced to nothing by the almost palpable relief he was not able to hide. Sherlock's face creased into an exasperated frown when the cabbie's annoyance sank in. As if to rile him he kissed John one last time, and then he was out of the cab in one fluid movement, leaning in through the side window to pay the aggravating cabbie and turning around to unlock their door in seconds. All John was left to do was follow his lead, and he did so with anticipation painting his every move.

Sherlock was waiting in the living room, still in his scarf and coat. When John walked up to him he immediately sensed the nervousness surrounding him like an electric fence. His gaze dropped to Sherlock's fingers, twitching, agitated and he backed off a bit. Casually he turned around and slipped out of his jacket.

'I could murder a cuppa, Sherlock. Fancy one, too?' Leaving his jacket on the banister in the hallway John walked through to the kitchen, busying himself with the kettle, allowing Sherlock the space he needed to breathe and to calm down.

'Yes, thank you.'

Only now did Sherlock take off his scarf and coat and dropped both of it carelessly onto the desk. He could not deny that he was nervous, frightened and cold all over and frankly he did not know where to go from here and - where to _start_, really. It had been ages that he had engaged in anything like _this_, meaning anything with those blasted emotions involved.

Trying to loosen his tired muscles he rolled his shoulders and closed his eyes - _Tension, so much tension … and memories and smells_ - and his fingers flew to his temples, in an attempt to massage it away, willing the images that were crowding in unbidden to vaporise. He moaned when the tension turned into something fiercer, turned into pain, a splitting headache forming behind his eyes. John looked up when he heard the pained moan, 'Sherlock? You all right?'

Sherlock managed a small nod, his eyes shut tight and his fingers tracing endless circles on his temples in a jerky rhythm.

'Let me, Sherlock.' John was next to him in an instant, and his calmness enveloped Sherlock like a benign cloud. He felt soft skin on his hands and his fingers being gently peeled away from his face. A soft tug and he was led over to the sofa where John sat down with him. He shuffled back until his back was propped up comfortably against the arm rest and then he motioned Sherlock to lie down between his legs and place his head on his chest.

Once they were settled comfortably, Sherlock's head a pleasant weight on his chest, John began to gently massage his temples, expertly and efficiently. Every completed circle of cool fingertips on warm skin lessened the tension, alleviated the pain, and Sherlock gradually relaxed, his features growing more and more peaceful, the fluttering of his eyelids becoming less and less pronounced.

Slow, nimble fingers wandered from the temples to the hairline and meandered into the soft curls John loved so much. Pronounced, but sensuous circles of fingers were weaving through the mass of dark hair and delving down to the hot skin of his scalp. A split-second before John could actually feel the scars he sensed Sherlock's body go rigid.

'It's okay … okay. I won't touch,' John whispered, but a shudder washed over him as if he was experiencing his pain by proxy. Experiencing the awful pain of the injuries which had led to those scars, and involuntarily he shifted slightly to get rid of this unpleasant feeling. From what he had been able to feel there were three different scars, two bigger ones on the right side of his head and a smaller one on the left.

'Moran,' Sherlock softly said, answering John's unspoken question. 'He used a knife. Three scars on my scalp and two on my chest.'

John's fingers stilled momentarily, as long as his brain needed to register what Sherlock had so casually divulged. Soon he resumed his ministrations and John felt his friend relax again. Nothing but the soft sliding of fingers on skin and the never dying city noises pressing in through the windows could be heard for a while – and it felt as close to peace as they could get.

John glanced at the windows and saw that the night was closing in. Idly his eyes roamed through the pleasantly untidy and familiar living room, their home, before they settled on Sherlock's beautiful face again. His expression had changed from peaceful to restless, and a myriad of emotions were marching over his features as if he was deciding on what to say or where to go from here. His jaw muscles were working furiously as an outlet for this agitation, but this lasted merely a few moments, and then Sherlock's long fingers sneaked to the buttons of his black shirt and fumbled with them, undoing the first three. John gulped when he saw the pale skin being slowly exposed.

Sherlock noticed John's reaction, of course he did, but undeterred he undid the rest of the buttons and opened his shirt completely, letting it fall open, presenting himself. John inhaled sharply when he saw the scars on his chest. This intake of breath was enough to tell Sherlock that John was surely repelled and would leave him lying here in a moment. It was hard for him to present his body and the reminders of the ordeal he had gone through. He closed his eyes as he had no intention of seeing the pity or disgust on John's face. And he braced himself because surely he would be pushed away and left here any moment now.

But John did not recoil, did not leave, he did not even think. Instinctively he placed his hands on top of the scars, covering them - not to hide them from sight, no, to make them his own. Sherlock's heart was pounding beneath his fingertips and he thought back to the first time he had placed his hand on his chest. And just like then his heart was pounding fast, but what a steady and reassuring rhythm it was.

'Hang on a sec, Sherl... ' John said quietly after a moment and lifted Sherlock's head from his chest. Sherlock's heart clenched a painful second – _now, he's going to leave me now _– but then he understood and sat up on the sofa so that John could wriggle his legs free and sit beside him. Again John touched the soft skin, gently trailing his fingers along the light pink scars. He made sure to break their connection only as long as it took to shrug out of his jumper and to unbutton his own shirt. He let it fall onto the sofa and turned back to Sherlock, facing him. Gently he took his hand and placed it on the big star-shaped scar on his shoulder, keeping his fingers on top of Sherlock's hand, keeping them prisoner for a moment as if he was anxious he would not want the touch.

'Your scar,' Sherlock said, almost dreamily and focused his attention entirely on the knotted scar tissue, red and screaming violent injury. Squinting he traced his finger along the finely marbled skin. 'A star flower,' he said, tilting his head to the side. 'It's beautiful.'

He moved closer and John was sure he was itching to get out his magnifying glass for an even closer inspection. Strangely enough it did not feel embarrassing or revolting to be under such intense scrutiny and John willingly drew himself up proudly to expand the skin and present the scar like a badge of honour.

'Interesting,' Sherlock murmured and closer and closer his face, his mouth, came and then lips took over from fingers and followed the outline of the scar tissue. John tilted his head back and closed his eyes, giving himself entirely to the sensation of being kissed.

'Does it feel the same when I kiss you here?' A low murmur and a sensuous kiss right next to the scar made John's skin tingle and glow. 'And there?' This time a kiss was placed right on the thick scar tissue which dulled the sensation and John told Sherlock so. 'Really?' Sherlock drew back and locked eyes with John. 'How interesting. Can you show me?'

John nodded and gently pushed Sherlock back against the armrest. He took his time to admire the pale and lean chest now willingly presented to him. Gleaming, ethereal and pale beauty, like a virginal canvas, waiting to be painted on. Waiting to be marked with love and not with violence, strokes leaving sensations and shivers, but no visible signs like the two scars running across his skin.

John licked his lips and reverently caressed Sherlock's chest with calloused fingertips leaving goose bumps in their wake. His eyes searched Sherlock's, he wanted to be sure that he was fine with everything he was doing to him. Sherlock's eyes were answer enough as they were gleaming, the pupils almost fully blown, and entirely focused on him.

The first kiss was only a soft brushing of lips over warm skin, right next to the first scar, running from below the clavicle towards his side, maybe one and half inches long. Another kiss, firmer this time, and another one, closer now and then he covered the entire scar with tender kisses. When his tongue slipped out and traced a path along the faintly pinkish skin, Sherlock's hands flew up to John's shoulders, stopping him.

'Too much?'

Sherlock nodded. And John stopped, but he made sure not to break the established skin on skin contact, and placed his hand where his lips had been. He straightened his back and searched Sherlock's face, the usually so pale skin flushed, the eyes half-closed and his chest heaving. John tilted his head to the side, the signs were explicit enough and confusion flickered over his face.

'It's just … I haven't done this for … a long time. I want to, but …' Sherlock murmured.

'Yes – Right. I understand,' John nodded, but all the while his fingers caressed soft, soft skin and a burning, and a more and more urgent desire started to build in his groin and he had to adjust his posture a bit in a vain attempt to hide his arousal. Sherlock read John's face, the way he had just avoided his gaze, and his body language, and he saw what he wanted - no needed - to see if he was for once honest with himself.

Throwing all concerns and past experiences and anxiety to the wind, he lifted his head and plunged forward to kiss him. And this time there was no mistaking the intent and passion behind that kiss.

And when John responded instinctively, shutting off all parts of his brain that could deter him, distract him and concentrated his entire being on this wonderful, broken man - And when Sherlock gave everything, everything and more, he could to this brave and enduring and handsome man he was kissing and moaning for - Then this was meant to be, it was meant to heal.

It was meant to make them stronger and to finally make them one.

* * *

**A/N** I suppose that this chapter will disappoint some of you – those of you who have been waiting for a bit more than _just kissing_ – but as usual this fic developed a stubborn little life of its own and what you have just read is the result of this stubbornness … :)

A bit more to come, my dearies! JJ


	8. Clarification

**Clarification**

John lazily turned onto his side, squinting into the bright morning sun. Disturbed by the cheeky glare of those piercing rays of light, he closed his eyes and turned again, grunting with discomfort. He tried with all his might to slip back into sleep and to cling onto the warm, fuzzy feeling that seemed to be permeating the air, the room, his entire being.

Out of the blue warm fingers ghosted over his face, softly and with infinite tenderness. Without opening his eyes John smiled, shuffling closer to the origin of this tender gesture.

'Good morning,' a low voice murmured close to his ears. Rich and full of promise the few syllable reverberated through John's chest, filling him with memories of last night and with promises of today and tomorrow. 'Good morning,' he drowsily replied, leaning forward to meet plush, warm lips.

Two, three, four soft kisses and a low moan followed by a curt 'Go back to sleep, John' was all he got. A command it had been, a soft-spoken one, but nonetheless a command. John blinked, that was not what he had expected, but when his frown met a tender expression on Sherlock's glowing, albeit tired face, he relented and decided to ignore it, letting the trace of annoyance die like a spark softly killed by a draught.

'Right - okay - maybe I will,' he murmured and curled up like a cat on the rug in front of a warm fireplace. Not such a bad idea, actually, his drowsy brain conceded, catching some more sleep after last night. It had been a restless night, filled with hesitation and love, passion and sex and talking, so much talking. They had come close, so very close to each other, in every aspect of the word, and now John felt the impact of all that had happened to them, and not only last night, but in the past days and weeks, and gratefully he closed his eyes again.

Sherlock watched John's calm face slowly gliding back to sleep before he slipped out of the bed and grabbed some clothes to put on. His eyes quickly scanned the bedroom, looking for his favourite dressing gown. It did not take long and he detected a glimpse of the distinctive blue on the floor, half-stuffed underneath the bed to be more precise. With the hint of a smirk he remembered what motion had been responsible for it to become wedged between the rug and the bed frame. When he bent forward to retrieve the gown from the floor he slightly winced, his muscles being sore and stiff. Straightening his back he glanced at John who had fallen asleep again and he smiled - an open, unguarded, unburdened and foremost happy smile.

Sherlock dressed and quietly left the bedroom - their bedroom now, presumably, if anything went _normal_ and according to mundane, average relationship standards - and padded barefoot into the kitchen. After the excitement of the past hours his brain had gone into full defragmenting mode, restless and whirring - like wires buzzing with electricity.

The changed dynamic between them needed to be examined, all they had experienced demanded to be evaluated and categorised and eventually filed away, hopefully overwriting more and more of his past. This process was filling his mind completely, but somehow he did not want to be consumed by it in such entirety and so he was looking for something to distract him, at least for a while.

Standing quite still in the middle of the cluttered kitchen he let his eyes roam over the table, over his microscope, unused for a while, and over a few slides smeared with dark substances. With regret he noticed that he must have left them to dry up, his uncharacteristic carelessness of the past weeks having made the samples inutile. Two Petri dishes lingered purposefully on a tray and sported gorgeous mould cultures. Sherlock lifted his hands and closed his eyes as if this would help him remembering, but his buzzing mind could not weed out the necessary information why and when he had started an experiment in need of those cultures. It bugged him that this data was somehow eluding him and he felt a stirring in his body, quite different to the one he felt when he was next to John, but a very familiar one nonetheless.

Purposefully he opened his eyes and focused on the microscope. After a second of thought he flicked the switch at the side of the microscope on. The resulting bright light revealed yet another slide, left underneath the ocular. He squinted at it for a moment, and what he saw immediately tickled his interest.

Sherlock's lips curled into a tiny smile, strange, how everything seemed more interesting today, brighter, more colourful, more important, when for weeks and months anything - _every single, blasted thing_ - had had a tough job holding his interest for more than a minute. In one fluid, elegant movement he sat down on the chair and began arranging his paraphernalia - and it didn't take him more than a moment to become utterly absorbed and lost in his work.

oOo

John stretched his legs and arms and yawned. A quick glimpse at the alarm clock on the night table told him that it was almost half past ten. Startled he began to peel back the duvet to get up immediately - _Jesus, so late_ - but then it dawned on him that it was Saturday, no shift today and no case chasing him - them - from their home, not yet anyway. With a relieved sigh John slumped back, but he was wide awake and restless now and soon another urge, another pulling force compelled him to get out of the warm bed. He wanted to be near Sherlock.

Wiping his hands over his face a few times in an attempt to chase the remnants of sleep away, he yawned again. This room was still not completely familiar to him and he looked around for his clothes from yesterday, for something - anything - to put on. With a smile he got out of bed and grabbed his pants and after a split-second of hesitation the black shirt Sherlock had worn yesterday. Shrugging into it he inhaled his scent. It felt like a guilty pleasure as wearing someone else's shirt was certainly very intimate. Evoking this closeness had frankly been unimaginable only days ago, and John felt like a teenaged boy, slipping on his lover's clothes for the very first time.

Of course the sleeves were too long for him, so he rolled them up and Sherlock's tight-fitting shirts were too narrow for his broader built, so he did not button it. Satisfied he glanced around the room one more time and went to look for Sherlock.

He found him in the kitchen, totally absorbed in his work, and completely oblivious to his presence. Quietly he stepped behind him and placed a small kiss on his neck, murmuring , 'Good morning, Sherlock.'

'Hmmm,' was the only reaction this gesture earned him, and John, who was not yet fluent in the Sherlockian idiolect of appreciative lover's noises, asked. '_Hmmm_ - _good_? Or _hmmm - leave me alone_?'

'What?' Sherlock looked up and blinked.

'You _hmmm_-ed,' John clarified, 'And from the inflection of this _hmmm_ I wasn't entirely sure whether you meant_ Go on, John, you make me wild_ - or rather - _Bugger off, John, I'm not in the mood_.'

Sherlock glanced at him, puzzled, but then his features softened and he smiled, in this very endearing lopsided way he had, and John knew he would accept any answer from him just now.

'Actually, John. As it is so often the case, you are being obtuse. And your demand was by no means clear enough. Maybe I could give you a better answer if you were to try again?'

'Sure,' John nodded, and came closer. 'Right, Sherl ... no problem at all.' He leaned down and nuzzled his neck, planting tender kisses on warm, pale skin.

'Hmmm - ' Sherlock hummed dutifully and leaned back into John, enjoying the warmth emanating from his compact and reassuring frame, relishing the closeness and realising with awe how the combination of these sensations made his body tingle with desire. Tilting his head back he offered John his neck and gave himself to his kisses and bites, thus answering his question sufficiently.

'Yes,' John murmured between kisses, 'So much clearer now, love.'

Sherlock's brain registered that particular term of endearment and his body immediately tensed. A term spoken in all innocence, but which held the power to catapult him back to dark and haunting moments - _Love, do come here - Love, look at you! On your knees, love, that's my boy _- but John was so absorbed that he did not register the tension that had taken hold of him. A shudder ran over his body, cold and uncomfortable, and abruptly Sherlock shook his head to break free and sit forward, away from John, leaving him feeling awkward and deprived. John gulped drily, rejected - _what the fuck had happened just now_?

'What's the matter, Sherlock? Did I get you wrong? I thought you wan...'

'No, John. No, I don't want to ... I cannot ... You said ...' Sherlock shook his head again and fell silent. His body curled into itself, trying to get further away from John who watched in utter bewilderment.

'Okay - right.'

John remained where he was, but he sensed that he made Sherlock uncomfortable and - _Jesus_ - did he himself feel uncomfortable, and so John walked over to the sink, not facing him, hiding his hurt. Hanging his head, he listened to the steady drop, drop, drop of the tap for some agonising seconds before his hand shot forward to close it properly, only to remember a moment later that he had come to the kitchen to find Sherlock - _now that had gone completely wrong, hadn't it?_ - and to have some breakfast.

It was a relief to do something, anything to deflect him from what had happened just now, and he turned away from the sink to slip into the almost automatic motions of fetching the kettle, filling it with water and busying himself with the preparation of tea and toast.

'Want some toast?' he asked, his tone clipped, unable to keep it free from the irritation he felt. Busy with the bloody old-fashioned toaster he had wanted to replace ages ago, he did not turn around. To be honest he was not expecting a positive reply to his question anyway.

'Yes,' Sherlock softly said, surprising John yet again, and added. 'Of course I'll have breakfast - with you, John.'

John just gave an almost imperceptible nod to indicate that he had heard and continued preparing breakfast. And despite the first step Sherlock had taken towards John, the awkward silence continued to hang between them, heavy with the words that were waiting to be spoken, but which were unable to find a way out just yet, and foggy with the explanations John had every right to expect.

But Sherlock sensed he could not go any further just now as John's unyielding back told him that he was irritated and hurt. He bit his lips and tried to concentrate on his slides again, hiding his confusion, and John energetically walked back and forth between the kitchen and their living room table which he set for two. Without any need to clarify by watching him Sherlock knew that he was quietly fuming. When John returned to the kitchen a second time Sherlock plucked up courage and looked at him. He studied John, his stance, his face, his attire and a frown knitted his brows, 'Is that ... _my_ shirt you're wearing?'

John glanced down his front, and continued to the sink to get some knives. 'Yes, it is actually.'

'Why would you do that?' Sherlock let his hands sink to the table. 'No, don't tell me, let me guess - Sentiment?'

'Sentiment indeed!' John asserted and then he huffed indignantly as this was really not going where he had wanted it to go barely five minutes ago. 'Listen, Sherlock,' he didn't turn around to face him, but leaned his hands onto the cold steel of the sink and stared at the milky glass of the kitchen window. 'I don't know what happened just now, I'm a bit _bewildered_ to put it mildly - And I can only guess ...' he cleared his throat, always a sign that something was bugging him and needed help to get out. 'So, in the future, if there's anything I do or say that makes you uncomfortable, just tell me, right? We can talk, clarify things ... and really, we don't have to rush anything. To be honest we probably _should_ not rush anything.'

'Obviously, John.' If Sherlock's choice of words had to be expected, his tone of voice had not, as it was a remnant of those cold past weeks, months and years, and certainly not a reminder of what they had shared last night. It was flat and impassive when it should be interested and warm. Sherlock listened to his own voice with amazement, sometimes he had no inkling why he acted the way he did.

Registering this tone of voice John's heart clenched and his fingers curled around the rim of the sink, but he forced himself not to flee, but to stay and to turn around instead. He was more than ready to stand his ground, but when he saw the forlorn look on Sherlock's face, his heart went out to him, and he knew then that it would never come back. This was it, for better, for worse, for now and forever.

'Slow - Sherlock.' John said quietly. 'We can take it slow. I'm willing to give you - _us_ - all the time it takes. As I've said there's no need to rush anything.' John nodded and crossed his arms in front of his chest as if he needed all the strength he could muster to stay where he was, and not rush over and seek and give comfort.

Sherlock's face was still impassive, unreadable, but he made sure to lock eyes with John, even if he did not get up or attempted to approach him in any other way. He just fixed his incredible eyes on him, making it harder and harder for John to stay rooted to the spot when all he wanted was to be close.

'Slow,' Sherlock said eventually. Musing, rolling the letters on his tongue, tasting each and every one. 'Slow - yes, slow is good John. Slow is absolutely fine.'

Only then did he get up and cautiously walked over to where John stood, nervous and waiting. Sherlock placed his hands on his arms, and with gentle pressure prised them apart, breaking up the barrier that the last minutes had built between them. John lifted his head and nodded, once, twice and with determination he pushed himself away from the sink and stepped into Sherlock's embrace, letting his head sink against his chest.

And there it was, the token, the proof, the irrefutable sign that he had been looking for - the steady and strong heartbeat right underneath his ears. John hugged him and smiled against Sherlock's warm skin as he followed the fast and reassuring pounding of his heart, and he knew then that it was pounding for him, and for him only.

Holding on to John Sherlock realised that if anybody would indeed give him time, would give him all he needed to heal, would give him love, it would be John, obviously. With something akin to awe he whispered into the stark morning light, 'John ... my John,' and paused a second as if testing the sound of these words. 'I do need you and I know now that I will always need you. Ignore my sarcasm, my coldness, the snarky comments if you can and if you cannot, bite back, give me what you have, but bear with me, please.'

John did not answer immediately, but enforced his grip, hugging him tighter, reducing what little distance there still had been between them.

'Well, you are bloody insufferable and arrogant and impossible, that's true,' John was unwilling to lift his head, to change his position, so he spoke against his skin, spoke to his beating heart. 'But besides being an annoying dick you are also amazing, wonderful and outstanding and ... beautiful and strong ...' John registered the amused chuckle rippling through Sherlock and lifted his head. His eyes searched Sherlock's face and he found nothing but open tenderness and joy. 'And I will bear with you, Sherl. I promise I always will.'

Sherlock chuckled once again, a low and exciting sound aiming straight for John's heart and bent down to kiss him. Tender at first and more demanding and urgent then, strengthening the bond between them just that tiny, but decisive bit more.

**The End (?)**

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**A/N** That's it for now! I have a feeling that this story is not complete, though, and I very well may add one or two chapters at a later point, but for now ... this is it!

Thank you all so much who reviewed, favourited or alerted this fic! I'm grateful for each and every reaction I got.

My special thanks go to **WitchRavenFox, MapleleafCameo, PowerOgirl, Wingatron, Godiva 33, Like a snowflake, KL08, MeggieMay9897, Jezzie81** you have been incredible (please excuse me if I forgot somebody)!

JJ


	9. Epilogue One

**I promised you an epilogue and here it comes! And even better, it's **_**two different**_** endings ... (see author's notes for more information).**

**Enjoy reading!**

* * *

**Epilogue - One**

In the end their love for each other made the difference. It was strong, loud and exciting at times and slow and comparatively dormant at others. It was by no means roses and violets all the way, but it was sound and alive and kicking and it was what kept them both sane.

oOo

Sherlock was irritated - irritated because John and Mrs Hudson had been conspiring for days. Lestrade was into it as well, Molly of course and Mycroft to a certain extent.

They thought he did not know, they seriously assumed he did not notice the obvious way they winked at John behind his back or clumsily slipped little notes into his pocket. They all left him out of something and he had not decided yet whether he should be offended that everybody seemed to think they could get away with it or simply indifferent to their infantile scheming. Of course, if he really wanted to know it would be child's play to find out - Cornering John would always be an option, or casually asking him when he was at his weakest, right after their love making possibly or in the early hours of the morning when he was half asleep.

Sherlock had almost made up his mind to do just that when a very intriguing case came up requiring his full attention, and this nagging feeling of being left out was completely forgotten and pushed to the back of his now pleasantly buzzing mind.

John had been just as glad as Sherlock when this case had come up, for entirely different reasons obviously. John had indeed been conspiring. And he had admittedly found it increasingly difficult to keep everything secret - The conversations with Mrs Hudson, the scheming with Greg, Molly and even with Mycroft to a certain extent - Well, to be more precise, to the extent John could stand the presence of this outwardly so cold and manipulating brother of his love.

There was always a certain something standing between them, and as much John could appreciate the notion of caring for one's brother even if this included surveillance and intrusion into other people's private life, the less he valued the outward coldness going hand in hand with it. But heroically casting all their difficulties aside for the sake of the event John had in mind, John and Mycroft had called a truce and had worked together for the one man, they would both, the one whole-heartedly, the other grudgingly, call the centre of their world.

A picnic had been John's first thought.

In his mind's eye he had seen them lounging in the open, carefree and happy. But the unfortunate and irrefutable circumstance of what was the origin of all this kerfuffle taking place in the wrong season had crossed this favourite idea quite naturally off the list.

How about a nice dinner in a cosy restaurant then?

Yes, that was always something that he could come back to, no shortage of good restaurants in London. He _could_ have that is, had it not been for the lamentable fact that Sherlock's demeanour in some of those locations in the past, and unfortunately in some of the nicer ones, meant that they would probably not be welcomed with open arms.

What then?

John asked all their friends. Lengthy phone calls with Molly ensued, numerous cake-laden tea hours with Mrs Hudson followed, cold and fruitless conversations with Mycroft took place, and everything had to be done without the most observant man in the world to notice.

John was fairly certain that Sherlock was indeed still clueless, and thankfully now too absorbed in the case of the bow-legged painter to pick up anything suspicious that was going on in his private life.

Fortunately all this talk and tea and cake and texts, going to and fro between John and his conspirators, had not been in vain. A week and a half before _the_ date John finally knew what to do and set out to arrange everything accordingly.

oOo

'For God's sakes, John!' Sherlock was fuming just as John had predicted. 'What's this childish blindfolding business? Where are we going? Why don't you save yourself the trouble and just tell me?'

'There's no way I'm going to take that blindfold off, Sherl. So do us all a favour and stop grumbling.' John led Sherlock by the hand, much to the amusement of the people they were passing on their way.

John wisely chose to ignore the constant grumbling next to him and glanced up into the sky. His eyes followed the voyage of soft, white, perfect snowflakes falling and nestling in Sherlock's dark curls, keeping the few silver hairs company which had started to appear not so long ago in this luscious mass of hair. Much to Sherlock's chagrin and to John's amusement who had caught him one morning trying to tear them out, one by one. John himself was more silver grey than sandy blond these days, but he still had a full head of hair and to be honest he did not mind quite as much that he looked near his age, which would be forty-five this year.

'This way, love,' John softly said, close to Sherlock's ear, and tugged his sleeve. He had slipped his other arm around his waist and thus could easily steer him anywhere he wanted. John realised that he rather enjoyed this. Sherlock's only response was an ill-tempered 'Hmm.' John, who had grown fluent in _Sherlock_ and in distinguishing between the nuances of his _Hmm-s_ noticed the abating irritation in that syllable and knew he had won. 'Almost there.'

John stopped a second to take a deep breath before he led Sherlock up a couple of wide stone steps and opened a heavy wooden door. 'Here we are - al_most_.' John grunted as he immediately had to push open yet another heavy door giving to a high-ceilinged entrance hall, entirely empty, the stuccoed walls eerily echoing their steps on the dark marble floor.

'Interesting,' Sherlock muttered, who of course knew exactly where they were, but would not for the life of him spoil John's surprise. Willingly he let himself be led through another set of doors into an auditorium - judging by the noises their feet made on the different surfaces - and down twenty carpeted steps to a wooden platform. John steered him carefully to the middle before he stood on tiptoes to remove the blindfold.

'Ah -' Sherlock dutifully exclaimed when he saw that they were indeed exactly where he thought they would be, trying his very best to tinge this syllable with the right amount of surprise to be still credible. He blinked, not because the room was overly bright, but he had been blindfolded for the best part of half an hour after all and had to get used to light again.

'_Ah_ -' John mimicked Sherlock before he continued. 'But that's not all, Sherl. Please, sit down.'

'Oh!' was all Sherlock could say, his mouth a lovely and perfectly rounded O, when he turned and saw what John had prepared for them. And this time his surprise was genuine. A picnic, of all things! Right here in the middle of the London Planetarium, defying the cold and the snow outside, defying the fact that this 6 January was indeed not made for outdoor activities. How perfect to simply ignore the season, how utterly John to be behind this kind of surprise.

'Happy birthday, my love,' John whispered and kissed him. 'Happy 40th.' Sherlock winced when he heard the dreaded number, but kissed John back, tenderly and full of gratitude.

'You know, John,' Sherlock lazily drawled, brushing his lips over John's cheek and enjoying a bit of stubble he must have missed this morning. 'There's no one else in this world I would let get away with sentimentalities like that.'

'Oh I know, Sherl,' John grinned. Taking his hand he sat down, dragging Sherlock with him onto the padded blanket that had been draped carefully across the floor. A basket overflowing with food and brightly wrapped parcels stood next to it and a bottle of champagne waited to be consumed in a bucket full of ice.

'Mrs Hudson?' Sherlock asked and John nodded. 'Molly packed the basket, though. Those frilly bows are her handiwork and Lestrade organised the _bubbly_, he always prides himself to be a _connoisseur_. Am I right?'

John did not answer, but kissed the smug smile off his face. Tenderly he dragged him further down until they were lying side by side on the blanket, facing the artificial sky of the auditorium. John pressed one button of the remote control just as Mycroft had instructed him to and it became completely dark. A low, very amused chuckle, cut through the darkness and John considered for a split-second to leave the plan be and just ravish him here and then. But then his thoughts travelled back to all the trouble their friends had gone to for this day and he pressed a second button.

The projector started to work and a gentle humming sound filled the air. Suddenly the darkness was not as complete as before and stars blinked here and there, two, ten, twenty, more and more, until a full January sky filled the dome.

'Happy birthday, love,' John repeated softly, but Sherlock was mesmerised by the display unfolding before their eyes and did not answer. 'It's the night sky of the 6 January half past ten in the evening when you were born, Sherlock. It's _your_ sky.'

'Thank you, John. I ...' he broke off, unsure what to say. John noticed the slight catch in his voice, indicating emotion, but he did not point it out. It was enough for him to know it was there, and he knew that all the scheming and planning and secrecy had been bloody well worth it. Sherlock was speechless for once, and what was even better he was speechless with emotion and that was his achievement.

'It's beautiful.' Sherlock eventually said and intertwined their fingers. John placed his head on Sherlock's chest and together they continued to watch the sky as it had been on the 6th January forty years ago - the night Sherlock Holmes had been born.

For a long time they just watched, in silence, and if that wasn't remarkable enough on its own, Sherlock could also not deny a kind of weight on his heart. A pleasant weight, but a weight nonetheless - Emotions - Sentiment - Memories ... - He glanced at John, his eyes caressing his compact form, snuggled up closely and safely in his arms, and his chest heaved with a mighty sigh. 'It's all right, Sherlock.' John said soothingly against his chest, 'We don't have to talk.'

Sherlock smiled and buried his lips in John's greying hair. He could not speak, even if he had wanted to, so he just placed a kiss on John's head and focused on the night sky above them again.

Snippets of images began to swirl in front of his mind's eye, teaming up to dance, and then arranged themselves into full-fledged thoughts and memories of childhood skies. Those skies he had seen as a happy little boy on his birthdays, those memories he retained of these days. Days he had been nervously waiting for, for weeks, months even, and which had sadly always brought, besides the presents and the joy, a kind of disappointment even then. A cold sentiment it had been, and a precursor of the disillusionment adulthood usually brought to such festivities. Sherlock remembered how indifferent he had grown towards his birthday with the years, how insignificant this day had become for him.

More memories joined the others - and a shadow passed over his soul like a cold draught when he remembered a birthday a few years ago, during his time away. Involuntarily he gulped and tightened his grip around John when images and smells and the ghost of lonely touches raced across his mind, catapulting him back to that first birthday alone when he had still been in Ireland, lying low and hiding from Moriarty's men. Really, there had been no room for such things as his birthday then, no thought to spare. At least that's what he had told himself. But solitude, forced inertia and the frustration about the fact that he was doomed to sit there, in this cottage, like a rabbit in a hole, had made him think, think about what he was, where he was and that he was utterly and miserable alone.

'You're not alone anymore, Sherl. And you never will be.' A whispered assurance, offered in reaction to the elevation of his heartbeat, in recognition that the past was still powerful enough to make his body respond uncontrollably.

'I know, John.' Sherlock's heart calmed down when he heard John's beloved voice and he gradually relaxed, giving in to the warmth that started spreading through his chest again. Nonetheless he felt the strong urge to whisper those words once more - 'I know. Yes, I know, my John' - to listen to them again thus making them somehow immortal. And Sherlock and John knew there and then that this was the absolute and irrefutable truth.

* * *

**A/N** The part in me that believes in happy endings could not resist writing this fluffy ending, but those of you who know me will know that I don't shy away from sadness.

So I could not resist and added an **alternative ending,** which, in my opinion, is just as plausible. Be warned, the fluff ends here, but if you like a bit of angst and sadness (and if you have enjoyed this fic so far I think you do) there is more of that to come ... in the next chapter.


	10. Epilogue Two

**Epilogue - Two**

In the end their love for each other was not enough to save Sherlock from the repercussions of his past. It was a slow descent into darkness, and John who was a prosaic man at times, an analytical man at times, a man who in happier times would have huffed indignantly at this choice of words, could not deny that this was indeed the appropriate term for what it was: bloody, never ending darkness.

It had been a gradual descent. A slow, but deteriorating process, dragging on for years really, starting right after his return. John knew now that Sherlock had never fully recovered from what he had gone through in those three solitary years and there was nothing or nobody that could prevent him from slowly going under. Not his work, not his friends and sadly not even John and his love for him.

oOo

'Hello boys!' Mrs Hudson's cheery call sounded from the hallway, announcing her imminent arrival. John folded up his newspaper and got up from his chair to greet their landlady.

'Hello, Mrs Hudson ... ooh, that looks delicious!' John smacked his lips when he saw the big tray with a plate filled with a variety of delicious little sandwiches and another plate laden with scones and strawberry jam and clotted cream next to it. Relieving Mrs Hudson of the tray he motioned to the kitchen counter. 'I got everything you told me to get, Mrs Hudson. There's Darjeeling - first flush as ordered - Assam and Lapsang Souchong - loose leaves naturally - and the special chocolate truffles you asked for.'

'That's marvellous, John. You are a darling,' Mrs Hudson stood on tiptoe to peck John on the cheek. Turning away she patted his arm in a motherly fashion and casually asked. 'Where's our birthday boy?'

'Resting. He was very tired after our walk this morning.' John put the tray on the kitchen table and smiled weakly. 'We agreed it would be better to get a bit of sleep before all the noisy festivity.'

'Right, dear. A bit of rest and quiet is never wrong!'

'He's quiet enough as it is already, thank you very much!' John snapped and immediately regretted his outburst. 'I'm sorry, so sorry, Mrs Hudson. It's just ...'

'Don't worry, dear,' Mrs Hudson assured him with another friendly pat on the arm. 'I understand. I merely meant I'm sure a bit of rest is just what he needed. He's always so tired these days, isn't he?'

All John could reply with was a weak nod as he was unable to respond in a more expressive way. He felt as if something was choking him and he noisily cleared his throat to get rid of it. Mrs Hudson noticed his discomfort and pain and turned away to give John some privacy. She busied herself with arranging the tea set, cups and plates and saucers, on the kitchen table which had been covered with one of her linen table cloths and looked rather lovely. 'What about his brother?' she suddenly asked. 'Will Mycroft come at all?'

John snapped out of his reverie when he heard that name. 'Yeah - I guess he will be paying a short visit later today. It's his bloody right as Sherlock's brother, though one can never be entirely certain with him ... as you bloody well know.'

'Language, my dear,' Mrs Hudson gently admonished. 'But how true. He _is_ a strange one, is Mycroft. So cold, isn't he?' She shuddered as if a cold hand had reached out for her. 'Enough of that, John,' she said with an air of finality, determined not to let anything spoil this happy occasion. Her eyes darted over the table, 'Have you got any sugar, dear?'

'Over there on the shelf.'

'Any milk?'

'In the fridge. There's always plenty. Sherlock makes sure of that. It's one of the little errands he runs on a daily basis. It's part of his routine, you know. We need to get a bit of structure into his - our - days.'

Mrs Hudson smiled and quickly turned away to get the sugar bowl and the milk. And a good thing that was as she felt warm tears welling up in her eyes - _Don't cry_, she berated herself. _It's no good whatsoever - and besides it's his birthday, so let's all be jolly._

John did not notice her distress as the mentioning of_ that name_ had lost him in the memories of his last encounter with Mycroft Holmes. It had been a fight, a cruel fight, fought with cutting remarks and settled with conclusive words. They had fought over Sherlock, of course, and this, as it proved, decisive battle had marked the climax of countless arguments they had fought out over the last months.

'I insist that he is taken care of at home, John.'

'His home is here, Mycroft. 221B is the only real home he ever had.'

'I'm sure you will understand that he needs to be with his family.'

'And I am sure you will agree that _I_ _am_ his family,' John had sharply rebuffed him and this remark had settled the argument once and for all, at least for him.

This unpleasant encounter had taken place a few days ago and since then the air between them had perceptibly cooled. Cooled below the already icy coolness that had marked their every interaction so far anyway. John was not sure how he felt about a possible visit of Mycroft today. But as it was Sherlock's 40th birthday, it had to be expected.

'There!' Mrs Hudson proudly exclaimed and clasped her hands in front of her bosom. John blinked, slowly finding back to the here and now. His eyes scanned the kitchen table and the array of tempting and mouth-watering things skilfully arranged on plates and trays. 'Oh, yes! This looks very tantalising indeed, Mrs Hudson! Wonderful!'

The doorbell rang once, twice, catapulting them both into action. 'I'll answer the door,' Mrs Hudson decreed. 'And you, dear John, you'll get our birthday boy.'

oOo

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, a silent entity among the happy chatter of his guests. His right hand rested on his thigh and his other hand held a plate of untouched sandwiches. He looked tired, but otherwise remarkably unchanged in his usual crisp shirt and tight-fitting suit. He always made sure to look dapper and well-groomed, holding on to that bit of normality as long as he was able to.

His hair was a bit longer and the curls a bit wilder these days, but he still retained that pale ethereal beauty that had always made him so outstanding. A few grey hairs at the temples were a testament of approaching middle age, but he was still lean as a whippet and his face was barely lined.

Looking at him one could be tricked into believing that everything was fine and not notice the change immediately. It was different though, when you had the misfortune to encounter him in one of his dark hours, and meeting his eyes you would notice that _the_ Sherlock Holmes was indeed no longer there and next to nothing was left of the sparkle and brilliance that had once made him so unique.

It was heart-breaking to realise that the buzzing, electrifying and more often than not irritating personality had been replaced by a diluted, washed-out and faded version. He would look at you, a puzzled frown on his face, but no curiosity would light up those mesmerising eyes. He would merely grace you with a weak smile and relapse into silent stupor.

John was sitting close to him, always keeping an unobtrusive eye on his love. Molly kept them company and was telling stories about her latest boyfriend, a _rogue_ apparently, as she confided with a giggle. Before, Sherlock would never have let her get away with it, would have teased her, always that tiny bit too much, but all Sherlock uttered now was a low scoff at the most inappropriate of moments and it could have been aimed at anything or anybody in the room.

Molly glanced at John who nodded at her, a reassuring smile playing around his lips, but not quite reaching his eyes. Quickly Molly's hands darted forward and touched both men's hands in a very tender and loving gesture. John bent forward and pecked her on the blushing cheek, but Sherlock did not respond at all. 'He's bad today, isn't he?' Molly whispered to John. John nodded yes and smiled again, a brave little smile.

With a heavy heart Molly got up and wandered off to talk to Greg and Mrs Hudson who were in the kitchen, noisily conferring about Anderson. Mycroft had not graced the party with his presence yet and John was strangely thankful for that small mercy. But their old friend Greg Lestrade had accepted the invitation happily and was now gleefully informing Mrs Hudson, who had always had a particular penchant for Sherlock's favourite Yarder, about Anderson's latest shenanigans. 'Hilarious!' she exclaimed when Molly joined them and covered her mouth with her hands in a vain attempt to keep the girlish giggling at bay.

John watched their joy for a moment before he turned his attention back to Sherlock. He seemed absent, not here at all, but John knew that he would answer him if he asked.

'Are you alright, love?' John gently enquired.

'Yes. Yes, I'm ... fine.' Sherlock seemed to listen to what he had said and then nodded eagerly to show that everything was in order. John relieved him of the plate of sandwiches slowly going stale. Sherlock must have misunderstood his intention and grabbed John's sleeves, 'Don't go!'

'I won't, love. I'll stay here - with you. I just put the plate on the coffee table. See, there.' John sat back, close to him. Sherlock did not turn to him fully, but placed his hand on John's leg and John felt this distinctive grip again, the one Sherlock had perfected in the last months. Pinching the fabric of his jeans, or whatever trousers he would be wearing, he would hold on with two fingers, thus establishing connection between them. John covered Sherlock's fingers with his hand, giving him the security and reassurance he was looking for.

'Do you like everybody to be here? Just for you and your birthday?'

'Yes, it's ... lively, it's... nice to see them all. But I'd rather be alone with you, John.'

'I know, I guess they will be leaving soon, Sherl. And then we'll have the whole evening to ourselves, as always.'

'Good,' Sherlock nodded once again and turned to John. They locked eyes and for a moment John saw the old glimmer and sparkle, the mischief that so often had lit up those eyes and his heart skipped a beat. _'Very_ good, John' Sherlock added in his low velvety voice that had lost its sharp edge, but was all the lovelier for it. 'I would like you to read to me. Will you do that?'

'Of course I will. Whatever you want. It's your birthday after all!'

'Good! I rather enjoy it when you read to me, John. It's nice and entertaining and ...' he frowned when he could not think of another fitting word as it was so often the case in the last months. It was as if the words were leaving him just as his old self was saying goodbye to the world.

'Yes, it is, love. It is,' John closed the gap between them and kissed him, a tender gesture and full of unspoken worries and joys that probably would never be discussed between them again. The smile that this kiss earned him made up for a lot, but it could not disguise the fact that their life as they had known it was over. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, the only one in the world, was no longer.

John refused to be consumed by those morbid thoughts and sank back against the sofa. With a warm smile on his face he invited Sherlock to lean his head against his shoulder. Wrapping his arms around him he let his gaze drop to Sherlock's fingers still holding onto him. Their life as they had known it might be over, yes, but John knew that he would never leave Sherlock, would never leave him in this darkness, would never leave him alone.

He kissed the top of Sherlock's head and caught Mrs Hudson's sad smile as she was looking over to them. He realised that it was just as hard for their friends to accept this new and alien version of Sherlock as it had been for him. He also knew that there was no way out, and that he did not want a way out, and that John and Sherlock, Sherlock and John were meant to be together forever, together until the very end.

'Yes,' he whispered almost inaudibly. 'Until the end.'

He thought Sherlock had not paid attention to his muttered words, but when he felt Sherlock's fingers tighten their grip on him, he knew that he had indeed heard and had understood, and this little gesture was all the assurance John would ever need.

* * *

**A/N** Sorry for that, but I did warn you ...

Well, this is it for **Dark Matter** (I think). I have a kind of back story for it in mind, covering some of Sherlock's time away, some decisive events, his POV, so that might very well be next ... or something else entirely!

Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, favouriting and alerting. A special **Thank You** goes to **WitchRavenFox, MapleleafCameo, PowerOgirl, Wingatron, Jezzie81, Like A snowflake, MeggieMay9897and Godiva33** again. You are my darlings :)

See you, JJ


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